The Horse With My Name (14 page)

‘Yeah, great,’ said Jimmy. The whole bank seemed to be looking at us. As he stepped forward his foot caught on Deirdre’s bag of coins and tipped it over. Several thousand coppers spilled across the floor like a jackpot. Jimmy gave a strangled ‘
Feck!
’

Deirdre rushed across from the counter. As Jimmy and I bent forward to help scoop the coins back into the bag, Jimmy’s gun slipped out of his jacket and on to the floor. Deirdre froze. Those around us who’d been coming to assist froze. My eyes locked with Jimmy’s.

Then I cracked him with my head.

I have never been one for headbutts. It hurt me as much as it hurt him. We both reeled away clutching our skulls. There was a tremendous ringing in my head, and it took me several moments to realise that it wasn’t in fact in my head, but in the bank, and that Ailish had sounded
the alarm. There was already a metallic screen descending rapidly from the ceiling above her.

Jimmy made a grab for the gun. I managed to kick it away from him. As I went after it Jimmy dived after me and we both fell clinking on to the coin-covered floor. There were screams of panic from the customers as they scattered. There was a scream of pain from the counter where the old man had caught his hand under the security screen, which was refusing to fully close. Jimmy had me by the hair and was pounding my head against the wiry carpet. If I ever got the chance to check my skull again I would find a bruise to the front, carpet burns to the back and the imprint of dozens of Irish harps from the cold, hard coins cushioning my assault covering the rest of it.

Abruptly Jimmy let out a yelp and fell back. I blinked up at Deirdre, holding the remains of the bag of coins in her hand, and then at Jimmy, sprawled out on his back, groaning. She looked pleased as Punch. ‘He was always a bad egg,’ she panted. ‘He sold that feckin’ pony on us.’

I pulled myself up to my knees, feeling groggy. Deirdre took a step back, still menacingly clutching the bag of coins. The customers hadn’t hung around to get shot and the staff were safely ensconced behind the security screen, which had finally closed, separating the old man from one of his fingers. He was now slumped down against the counter, cradling his hand and sobbing. I looked at the gun. It was under Deirdre’s foot.

‘There’s no point in robbin’ it now,’ she said, calmly.

‘I never intended to,’ I replied.

‘What about him?’ She nodded down at Jimmy.

‘He intended to rob me. But you saved me. I love you.’

She smiled hesitantly. The alarm continued to shriek. ‘I shouldn’t trust you,’ Deirdre said, ‘but at least you were pleasant. Costs nothing to be pleasant.’ She kicked the gun
across the carpet to me. ‘Now please don’t let me down by shooting me.’

I lifted the gun. ‘Thank you so much.’

Jimmy rolled back up into a sitting position. He was still pretty much out of it, but there was no way of knowing how long that would last. I stepped towards him. I turned the gun round in my hand, then stood over him, brandishing the butt. I wasn’t quite sure where or how to strike him. It was quite easy in films. You’d just biff him and he’d fall over. But with a real person I’d probably have to do it repeatedly, until the blood started to spurt or his head caved in. Or I’d not have the strength and he’d just laugh, take the gun off me, and shoot me. I wasn’t going to shoot him, that was for sure.

Deirdre solved it for me. She stepped up beside me and nodded disapprovingly down at Jimmy, holding his head in his hands. ‘You go,’ she said, patting the bag of coins again. ‘Leave him to me.’

‘I . . . you can’t . . .’

‘Believe me. It’ll be a pleasure.’

I smiled. ‘Thanks,’ I said. I nodded around the bank. ‘All this . . . difficult to explain.’

‘It’s okay,’ Deirdre said. The alarm was joined by a police siren. ‘Go,’ she said.

I nodded again, then hurried to the door. As I pushed through it there came an ominous
thump
from behind and I glanced back in time to see Jimmy settling horizontally. I gave Deirdre the thumbs-up and stepped outside.

The police siren was immediately louder, and definitely closer.

The bank customers were gathered in a loose semicircle, waiting to see what would happen. Passers-by had stopped with them, curious. They all moved back a little further as I emerged and they saw the gun in my hand. I looked beyond
them to the Superquinn car park. There was no sign of the Ford transit.

There came a rattle to my left. I glanced down at the gypsy, extending her paper cup. I removed a pound from my pocket and dropped it in. Then I handed her the gun. She accepted it with a black smile.

‘Shoot anyone that moves,’ I said, then added, ‘Except me, of course.’

Then I made my way through the crowd. They remained statue still and I didn’t hear any shooting until some minutes later.

14

Where I can help it, I avoid sleeping in bushes, shop doorways and on park benches. There’s nothing romantic about waking up with slugs on your face or dog pee in your pocket. The most important thing about being on the run is finding comfortable surroundings, getting your rest, a good night’s sleep, and taking the opportunity to step back from it all and analyse your position in a philosophical light before coming to any major decisions. Of course, this isn’t always possible. But I had the advantage of a little cash, clothes in reasonably good nick, the late Mark Corkery’s cash card and an urgent desire to hide out until the Second Coming sorted everyone’s problems out and left me in peace.

The facts remained: three dead Chinamen in my house and a starring role in a straight-to-video epic about a bungled bank heist, showing at a police station near you, or more probably me.

I needed a base until I could work out what to do next. I walked the streets of Dublin for a while, keeping to the less salubrious surroundings of the northside, working my way out from Connolly station until I found a small bed and breakfast which looked about right. I booked in for
one night. There are generally two types of B&B, and they’ve little in common. One is a small family affair aimed at tourists on a budget, nice fresh sheets on the bed, a traditional Irish breakfast, quaint, homely, playing to the stereotypes; the other’s a doss house for the unemployed, the drink-addled or the drug-dependent, a hole where the owner supplies nothing but a room and a bed and a glare and everything else is left to you. This owner, in tracksuit, trainers and a Keegan perm, was firmly in the latter camp. He asked no questions and demanded payment in advance.

He didn’t show me to my room. He took the punts then pointed vaguely up the stairs as he counted them. He mumbled
twenty-three
and something else that I took to be
keysindoor
. I creaked up the stairs. The carpet in the hall lifted a little with each step I took. I came to an open door with
23
written on it in thick black marker strokes. The room was spartan. It smelled of sweat and cigarettes. The sheets on the bed were thrown back and there was an indentation that, given time, might prove a major attraction in Turin. I took the sheets off the bed and stuffed them in an empty cupboard. I turned the mattress over. It didn’t kill the smell, but it improved it a little. The glass in the window frame was loose and rattled in the breeze. I’d a partial view of the street outside. I sat on the ledge, sipping on one of the cans of Diet Pepsi I’d brought with me, one eye on the passing traffic and the other turned in on my troubled soul.

I was trying to come up with answers but there were only questions. Corkery, despite his crusading as the saintly Horse Whisperer, had evidently been up to mischief. Clearly the Chinese bookies and my more recent captors felt he owed them a large amount of money, but what if it wasn’t stolen, but the result of another of his betting coups? If they were operating illegally as bookies they’d have had
to be offering better odds than legal ones; if they’d been stung they had no legal redress. Whatever way Corkery had managed to get the money out of them, they obviously wanted or needed it back. The Chinese had clearly believed I was the Horse Whisperer; they were dead now, but that didn’t mean that was the end of it. There would be brothers, and bosses, and
tongs
. They could have been friendless orphans, of course. But my history suggested they had ten thousand angry relatives thirsting for revenge. Oil Paintings, Chicken and the mysteriously absent Dry Cleaner, on the other hand, hadn’t mentioned the Horse Whisperer at all, and didn’t seem to care who I was so long as I came up with the cash. I’d been staying in Corkery’s house, I was using his bank card, so I was connected. Simple as that.

Was either camp going to forget it now that I’d managed to give them the slip?

NO.

Was I brave, courageous and determined to outwit them?

NO.

Was there anyone in the entire world who would give me a hug?

NO.

I had the Chinese and Irish bookies on my trail, the Garda would shortly be added. In my corner – a widow on the internet. There was Patricia, but I’d caused her enough pain. And Mandy . . . what of her? A beautiful, highly strung woman, who wanted to take me jogging. Tomorrow. If I collapsed after the first hundred yards I could truthfully explain I’d been running since the previous day. Her father stood accused in at least two minds of murdering Mark Corkery. Mark Corkery stood accused in McClean’s mind of reneging on a gentleman’s agreement that had grown out of another betting coup. Was there any connection between
Corkery’s coup with McClean, and Corkery’s coup with the Chinese and Irish bookies?

No idea.

I needed to talk to Hilda. There was no phone, of course. There was a lounge downstairs with a television set. There were half a dozen down-and-ins watching coverage of the racing from Punchestown. If I’d stayed I’m sure I might have seen one of Geordie McClean’s horses. Maybe the man himself. Mandy was keeping herself for Aintree.

I walked out into the late afternoon sun. At least it had brightened up. The
Evening Press
was on sale on the corner. The headline read
Traveller Runs Amok
. The strapline beneath said
Six Wounded
. I didn’t know much about guns, but in Westerns there were only ever six bullets; if there had been that many in the weapon I’d given to the old gypsy, then it wasn’t bad shooting. I flipped the pages to see if there was any mention of the Chinese, but there was nothing. It was early days. Birdshit man was probably still too scared to phone the cops.

I crossed a footbridge over the Liffey and wandered into Temple Bar, the booming bohemian area of the city that seemed the best bet for what I was after. Normally I refuse to ask directions, but I was in a hurry. A tiny girl in a tiny shop that seemed only to sell earrings pointed me the right way and I was soon seated with a Diet Coke in a smart and spartan internet café. The owner or manager, early thirties and balding, sat behind a counter, surfing himself, while two black-T-shirted waitresses dispensed beverages and smart-looking pastries. There were a dozen terminals, about half of them in use. There were eight other people just enjoying coffee. It seemed strange. Like going into a car showroom because it served nice cups of tea.

What I really needed was a one-to-one with Hilda. There was no point in leaving a message describing the mess I was
in. It would only panic her. Without revealing any details of my adventures, I left e-mails for her at fifteen-minute intervals. I idled over four Diet Cokes while I waited for her to respond. It turned into early evening; the sun vanished behind the shops and offices; the café began to fill up. All of the terminals were in use. People were waiting, patiently, it must be said, to go on-line. I was getting a little embarrassed. Like standing by a call box waiting for it to ring and not allowing anyone else to use it just in case they phoned while it was busy. I checked my watch. I’d been in the café for two hours. I was busting for a pee. There was a young man in a smart blue business suit standing directly behind me, waiting. I nodded apologetically at him. He smiled benignly back.

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘waiting for something.’

He nodded. ‘That’s okay.’

‘Should be here any mo.’

He nodded. I drummed my fingers. ‘What about you?’

‘No rush. Checking for the new
Star Wars
release date.’

‘Won’t be long.’

But I was. Another ten minutes passed. His eyes weren’t exactly boring into me, but. Hilda could be anywhere. Shopping. Snooping. But I needed to talk to her. It was
urgent
. People were
dying
. All she had to do was type. I sighed. I turned. ‘Tell you what . . . would you be long?’

‘Couple of minutes.’

‘Well do you want to do your stuff while I go for a pee? If you promise to let me back on?’

‘No problem.’

I stood. He smiled warmly and took my seat. I hurried into the gents. It was very clean. Lots of mirrors. The peeing wasn’t the problem, it was the washing of the hands. There was no tap to turn on the water. I had realised, of course, that it was hi-tech, just not
how
hi-tech. Days were you
could just go for a straight pee, but this was
ridiculous
. I tried holding my hands under the water spout to see if it would trigger automatically, but nothing. I moved the spout left and right, down and up, but nothing. I looked for a button on the wall. There was only one and that turned the lights off. I wasn’t brought up to believe that cleanliness was next to godliness, but my dad did insist that my hands not smell of pish. It wasn’t fair. I had fearlessly conquered my phobia of new things. I was no longer computer illiterate. I could surf without taking a bath. I was not going to be defeated by a tap. The only reasonable conclusion was that the tap was voice-activated. I steadied myself, took a deep breath, and said, ‘Cold water.’

Nothing happened.

‘Warm water.’

Nothing.

Perhaps I was getting too technical.

‘Water,’ I said.

There came a squeak from behind me. I turned to find the owner standing there, his feet grinding into the chequered linoleum, looking a little concerned that I’d been talking to his sink.