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  I let my head drop. Closed my eyes. Ignored the pain. Blood on my face, running over old wounds. I heard O'Brien move, then the breeze of his arm, and a hard slap across the face that was worse than before, something burning me this time. O'Brien held his hand, pushed into my face, and there was something that smelled in it, something that burned us like it was acid. I tried to kick my legs out, but they'd buckled against the side of the bath.

  "What did I tell you? Don't tap out." He was right in my face now. His breath reeked of whiskey. The smell mixed with shampoo, made us want to heave. "I don't want to repeat myself."

  I groaned loud enough to register and he backed off. My left eye was sealed. My head was whirling. Couldn't think. Burning all over. Wanted to do the same to O'Brien.

  "James."

  I stared at him with my one good eye. "Uff."

  He straightened up. "I was telling you how it is when you find yourself with a long stretch ahead of you. Because when that happens, James, you can forget about the outside world. The people out there, there's no point in thinking about them. They're off living their lives, having a fierce time, while you're stuck in a cell with a man who breaks wind more often than he talks, and he talks a lot."

  O'Brien cleared his throat.

  "Or maybe," he said, "you find out that he's a beast, which means that you're the one who has to deal with him, or the other lads will tar you with the same paedo brush. So you have to give him a shorteyes scar on the right cheek, and then you leave him to the boy with the lighter fluid and Swan Vestas."

  He paused and looked up at the ceiling, a smile on his face. It stayed for a few seconds, then melted as he turned back to us.

  "Meanwhile, those people outside the walls, the ones who mean so much to you, they're busy scraping you from their memory. They might not mean to, but they'll do it because the easiest way to deal with your absence is to forget you. You won't begrudge them either, because you'd do exactly the same thing in their position. And what happens to you then? What is a man, James, but an extension and reflection of the people he surrounds himself with?"

  I steeled myself and said, "Who were you surrounded by, boring cunts?"

  He smiled. "Animals, James. I was surrounded by animals. And when that happens, you can't expect to remain unchanged. What about you? You surround yourself with nobody, so what does that make you?"

  "Farrell."

  "A bottom-feeder, then. Too slow to stay whole, too thick to know the value of anything they stumble across."

  I felt something warm coat my lips. Could have been spit, but it was probably blood. O'Brien's face shifted in and out of focus.

  "I know what I am, James. I know what I've become. And it was your man Farrell and his whore of a girlfriend who made me this way, so if there's anyone to blame here, it's them. Because nobody plays me. Not them, and certainly not you."

  Didn't know what the fuck he was going on about, and when he finally stopped talking it was a relief. He turned his back on us. I shifted in the bath, made some ripples in the water.

  When O'Brien turned round, there was something in his hand. Wasn't the Stanley. Something else. Shining bright, glittering through the water in my right eye.

  Shit.

  A gun, a snubby, just like the one Farrell robbed off Goose.

  "So," he said, "I'm going to ask you one last time, James."

  I grunted. Made noises that could've been answers. Hoping he'd mishear and put the gun down.

  "Where's the money?"

  I frowned and the pain brought me alert. Had to think. Go through each of the words first, try to keep focus even though the water droplets on my jacket were all I really wanted to look at. Shook my head. Tensed up. Prepared to speak and braced myself for the pain.

  "There," I said. "Is."

  Stopped. Took a breath.

  "No. Money."

  And then slumped back against the wall.

  He thought it over. He nodded. "There's no money?"

  I shook my head.

  "Then you're no good to me, are you, James?"

  "I—"

  "You're just wasting my time."

  "Wait."

  His shadow spread over us, and a chill came with it. When I looked up all I saw were grey shapes. Then I felt the sudden freeze of the gun pressed against the side of my head. I shifted, saw O'Brien's other hand up, ready to shield himself from the spray.

  "Uff," I said.

  "Might as well put you out of your misery."

  Tried to move my arms, but they were bound and numb. My legs didn't work neither. Couldn't breathe. Too scared. Ashamed. About to fuckin' die in a dirty fuckin' bath with a patchwork face and piss leaking into my pants. I was crying when O'Brien pulled the trigger. Sobbing and it hurt, and I didn't know what to do, and I was a kid and this was just like—

  Fuck—

  This wasn't the way it was supposed to—

  A roar. A white flash.

  Then nowt.

  PART THREE

  GET FRANK

  FARRELL

  "You're in serious trouble, Mr Farrell."

  That wasn't news. I'd heard that in various iterations since I was wee. Didn't faze me when Mrs Burke said it to me in first school, and it sure as shite didn't faze me now. When he said it, DS McDonald paced the floor, his shoulders hunched over. He probably thought it made him look like Vic Mackey. He looked more like the Commish. And now he was speaking freely, he'd found a familiar tone, one that reminded me of judges, probation officers and the social. People who thought they knew better. Received knowledge in the place of actual knowledge.

  I kept it shut. It was always best to treat the police like a three-bob ball-gazer. The less you said, the more control you kept. And this bastard here was trying to peddle my future into prison, so I wasn't about to give him any help.

  McDonald stopped in front of the door. He sniffed again. He started to say something, then held up a hand. He went into his jacket pocket for his tissue, honked into it, then sniffed again. "What were you doing in the room?"

  I kept quiet.

  "I don't know what you think this is, Mr Farrell, but it isn't going to go away."

  I didn't answer.

  "You broke into a hotel room."

  I shook my head. "I had a key."

  "Obtained under false pretences."

  "For a room I'd paid for."

  "And a room you trashed." McDonald jerked a thumb at the door. "The manager's all set to press charges."

  "I didn't damage anything. I just moved stuff around a bit."

  "You were looking for something?"

  Nothing from me.

  "That's what it looked like. So what was it?"

  "I already told you what happened."

  He referred to his notes. "Yeah, I know. Checked your recent transactions, found the Royal Station Hotel, a room you didn't remember booking. You rang up the hotel, got an extra key, went up to the room and ... what?"

  "And that's all."

  "You wanted to find out who'd booked the room, yes?"

  I shrugged. It was an obvious assertion to make.

  "So why didn't you tell reception? And for that matter, why didn't you just cancel your card?" He wagged a finger. "You know what, if you're actually the victim here, it'd be in your best interests to start acting like one."

  "I'm trying to be as helpful as I can."

  "I dare say you aren't." McDonald stopped in front of the door again. "I can pull you in, you know. You can waste my time down at the station."

  "I'm not wasting your time, you're wasting mine."

  "Oh yes, You had somewhere you needed to be."

  I glanced at my watch. "I did."

  "Where was that?"

  "I don't believe that's any of your business."

  "Did you know the people who checked in?"

  I didn't say anything. McDonald brought out his tissue again. He rubbed his nose.

  "You know the woman? The man who said he was Mr Farrell?" With his ot
her hand, he flipped open my wallet. I hoped that the gram of coke wasn't tucked in one of the billfolds. "They had your wallet. So what was it? You came over here after this? A hell of a trip from Galway, isn't it?"

  "You wouldn't believe. No direct flights."

  "And that's what you were doing in the room?"

  "Okay."

  He looked at me for what felt like a full minute. "Nah, I don't think so. Where were you last night?"

  "With a friend."

  "Your friend got a name?"

  "He's got two, first and second. If you charge me, I'll give them up. And I'll give you my solicitor's name too. You'll be able to direct any further enquiries through him."

  McDonald half-sniffed – his nose was too blocked. He shook his head and turned away from me for a moment while he evacuated it. He checked the contents of his hankie and grimaced, then balled it up and tossed it into a wastepaper basket. "The blow to the head didn't kill her straight away." He tugged another tissue from a pack of Handy Andys. "She was conscious for a while after. From what I saw, I'd say she crawled for a good long way before she ended up outside that caravan. No evidence to suggest that she knew who was inside, but she definitely tried to get their attention. Wasn't a pretty death, I can tell you, though they rarely are." He was staring at my leather jacket. "Blood everywhere."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "We haven't got a confirmed ID as yet, but she's definitely the woman who checked in with your card." He waved a couple of fingers near his arse. "There was a hotel key card in her back pocket. Doesn't take a genius to put it together."

  He was lying. He had to be. I thought I'd checked the pockets. I flashed on Nora's face, spotted with rain. I couldn't remember.

  I must've shown something, because he was right in there. "Where did you say you were last night?"

  "I told you."

  "Right, this conveniently nameless mate of yours."

  "Are you trying to say I murdered this woman?"

  "Oh, I don't know about that." He pushed his tissue up his sleeve. "Just between us, I think it would be tough to prove conclusively that it was murder. Manslaughter, maybe. But I wouldn't accuse you of anything, Mr Farrell, unless I had concrete evidence to back me up." He smiled, showing solid teeth. "I'm a by-the-book kind of guy."

  "So I can go then?"

  He didn't blink. Another full minute passed. He moved his mouth before he spoke. "You're not thinking of going anywhere exotic, are you?"

  "No."

  "You have business in Newcastle?"

  "I'm just visiting."

  "Yeah, I'll need that friend's address before you go. A phone number."

  "I don't know his number."

  "You have a mobile?"

  "No."

  He looked shocked. "Really?"

  "Really."

  "I'd be lost without mine. You be sure to give your current address to PC Barker out there." He handed my wallet back. "Until then, I suppose you're free to go."

  I tucked my wallet into my jacket and headed for the door. The manager was waiting outside. He looked at me, then McDonald, then back at me.

  "You're not letting him go, are you, officer?"

  McDonald gestured to the constable in the cap. "That's PC Barker over there."

  "Wait, he wrecked one of my rooms. He tore it apart. Surely you're going to charge him?"

  I gave Cobb's address to the midget copper. There was no point in lying. I wasn't going to be around long enough for a home visit.

  "Breaking and entering." The manager's voice became shrill. "Officer—"

  "It's Detective Sergeant." McDonald sniffed at him. "That's the full title. You can use Sergeant if you want. But I'm not an officer."

  The manager blinked as if McDonald had thrown salt at him. "Sorry?"

  McDonald ignored him and escorted me to the exit. I was about to push through when he said, "Keep yourself available, Mr Farrell. Don't get any daft ideas. I'd hate to have to look for you."

  "I'm sure I'd hate to be found."

  He smiled, then made a move for his tissue.

  I headed down the street to the cab rank. I didn't need to look over my shoulder to know that McDonald was watching me. I needed to get out of here, but I couldn't phone Cobb just yet. Chances were, he'd been around at the agreed time, seen the uniforms and bolted. I would've done the same.

  I got into the first black cab I saw and told the driver Cobb's address.

  And as I settled in the back seat, I reckoned that home free was a pipe dream now the police were involved.

  Now, it was all about damage control.

  ***

  An old fella in a flat cap and pervert raincoat pushed out through the doors just as I arrived back at Cobb's block. I held the door open for him, but when I said hello, he hurried on. Irish accents obviously gave him the shits. I took the stairs.

  When I reached Cobb's corridor, there was blood on the floor and the smell of smoke in the air. The smell got stronger the closer I got to the remains of Cobb's front door. It wasn't cigarette smoke, either. Someone had fired a gun in here. At my feet, the blood trail jumped over the books that were strewn across the carpet. And then I noticed the other smell: aftershave, some musky old man scent.

  "Jimmy?"

  I stopped. Listened. Nothing.

  Wait, no. There was a sound. Muffled. Electronic. The kind of noise the phone made when you left it off the hook too long. I kicked through the books on the floor, saw the phone lying down by the side of the sofa, the receiver halfway underneath. I tugged it out and set it down. Then I picked it up again to hear a stuttered dial tone. I hit 1571, listened to the messages.

  Goose: "Fuck's the matter with you, Jimmy, eh? Tell you something, marra, anyone comes looking for you, they won't have to look for long, know what I mean? I ever see you round my way again, I'll take your fuckin' balls." Click.

  Baz: "Uhh, this is Baz." An uncomfortable pause. "Alright, I think you should give us a ring back, Jimmy. Or Sean. Give us a ring. Like, fuckin' now. I'm serious. Shit's flying." Click.

  Orville: "Jimmy, I've got to tell you, man, you're keeping some bad company if you're after hanging out with Frank O'Brien. Anyway, I got some information for you if you want, which you do. Bring us a bottle, the good stuff. And you owe us a pound for the phone. Cheers." Click.

  And nothing more.

  I grabbed the bottle of Bushmills from Cobb's couch. It was half gone. And there that cheeky bastard was telling me I shouldn't be drinking. I took a long pull. It burned until I coughed. I lit a Dunhill, let the smoke drift out of my mouth. I needed a piss.

  Normally I wouldn't have chanced Cobb's pit of a bathroom – the stink alone could blind a man at forty paces – but I couldn't wait around forever for Cobb to get back from wherever he was.

  The door wouldn't open at first. I had to put my shoulder to it.

  Christ, the smell was worse than I'd expected. I waved one hand, tried to waft it away, my other groping for the light cord. I moved into the bathroom blind, knocked something heavy on the floor. Found the light cord and pulled it.

  The light flickered on. There was a free weight at my feet. Blood dulled the metal. And there was that smoke smell again, overpowering in the small room. I blinked hard, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

  When I saw Cobb, I nearly dropped the bottle.

  His face was a mask of blood, some of it congealed in sticky reddish-brown trails that snaked down his cheeks. His body was twisted painfully, his knees pressed up against the side of the bath, his back to the wall. Blood-tainted water had gathered in pools on the floor.

  I put the bottle of Bushmills on the toilet and wiped my mouth. "Jimmy?"

  I couldn't think of anything else to say. Just his name, and the overwhelming knowledge that I'd lost another one. I had to grab onto the side of the basin to steady myself and something sharp dug into my palm. I slumped onto the toilet and examined my hand. A small cut, more blood. There was a cufflink sat next to the
soap dish. I must've knocked the other one into the basin. I picked it up, saw the Celtic cross design.

  "You see what you did, Farrell?"

  "Shut up."

  "You got him killed."

  I twisted the cap from the Bushmills and took a swallow to kill the voice. I looked at the end of the cigarette. I didn't look at Cobb.

  O'Brien.

  He killed Nora.

  He killed Cobb.

  It was his revenge first, not mine. And that had all started with Nora and the plan to make Farrell big time. Or prove he already was.

  "Preying on a man in prison, Farrell. Shame on you."

  It should have been easy, should have been clean. But then these things never panned out the way you wanted them to.

  "I'm sorry, Jimmy."

  I needed to cough, still needed to piss. And I almost did both when Cobb breathed hard out through his nose. I twisted on the toilet. Didn't realise the Dunhill was out of my mouth until I went to extract it.

  Cobb was breathing.

  I couldn't believe it. Like Nora's voice, this was just my brain fucking around with me. I had already rushed full tilt into the arena of the mentally unsound; this was just another in a long line of symptoms.

  Cobb opened one eye. He closed it. Then opened it again and looked right at me.

  I didn't move.

  Cobb's eye seemed to brighten. His face twisted slightly into what could have been a grin and he showed pink teeth. When he opened his mouth to speak, blood oozed from the cuts in his face. "Gonna help us?"

  I snapped awake, moved to the bath. Cobb was in a state, but he was still alive. Dead men didn't talk like they were in pain. I shifted position and knocked Goose's .38 – or what was left of it – towards the toilet. The gun barrel looked as if someone had taken a hammer and a welding torch to it. The scorch mark on the side of Cobb's head told the rest of the story.

  "Jesus, Jimmy, I thought you were dead."

  Cobb's voice was thick. "Been better."