When All Is Said(58)

She swirled her drink, watching it go around, and then drank from it. I took a sip of my own in the silence of the hiatus. When the liquid had quietened, she continued:

‘Until no more tears, no more pain, no more breath. He died there and then. Dead. Instantaneous. Heart attack, they said. It killed him just as we always knew it would. I didn’t know what to do. Mother was shouting and wailing in my ear. I just ran out to grab someone who could make him come back, make him be alive again, make it so I hadn’t killed him. Somewhere in my naivety I hoped that coin’s resurrection, its return, would give him peace.’

She laughed ironically, and with a sigh said: ‘Instead, it tormented him to death.’

She took out the black box and laid it between us. I glanced down knowing what it held but not wishing to see. She put down her glass and opened it and I didn’t stop her, as much as I’d have liked to. There, facing me sat the abdicated King, doubly defiant.

I didn’t quite know what to say. Was I there to stand trial for Thomas’s death, was that what Emily had wanted, was that why she’d summoned me? There were times in my life I admit I had wished that man dead – a horrible, painful death. But as I sat watching Emily twitch with guilt and sadness, her tears falling steadily, there was no solace, no joy that he, at last, was gone.



* * *



About a year ago, son, I was following a Volkswagen Golf, Dublin reg, down our road. Evening it was, about seven. When it came to our gate, it braked, went by real slow, and then sped up again on its way. I didn’t like it at all. These rural robberies, son – Dublin gangs targeting old people in their own homes, cash, that’s what they’re after – it’s not right. The next day when I was standing in the front room, Cup-a-Soup in one hand and slice of bread in the other for the lunch, didn’t I see it pass again. Bold as you like. Broad daylight. I rang Higgins straight away. ’Course it rang out. Cutbacks. Possibly over doing his shift in the Duncashel station. Then, as I tried Robert, didn’t the fecker pass again, slower this time. Stopped right outside the gate. Sat there, the car idling, looking up at the house.

‘Some Dublin fecker’s out here scoping the place,’ I told Robert’s voicemail. ‘Can’t get Higgins. Call me.’

With the lace curtain between us, I saw him edge slowly on and pull into the gate of the field opposite. Right in, good and tight. The door opened and out he stepped. He started to cross the road, his hand patting his left pocket. From the other, he took out his phone. Over the cattle grid he came, making his way up the drive, doing a three-sixty once or twice. I backed away from the window, reached for my shotgun and made my way to the back door. I hunkered down to Gearstick, looked him in the eye and held his snout so he’d know to be quiet. And then we were gone, taking a right along the back and then up the side of the house. Gearstick kept pace as I held the shotgun tight. At the corner, we stopped. Me, pressed up against the wall, and Gearstick at my leg, my heart pumping away like I was running to catch the 109 to Dublin. I poked my head out, quick like.

‘Yeah, it’s the place alright,’ I heard your man say, mooching around my front door. ‘Looks quiet to me. I’ll call you back.’

I watched him stick his mug up against the sitting-room window. His hand over his eyes, having a good butchers. He switched sides then, starting on the bedroom windows. I pulled back in as he made his way down to where I was waiting, looking through each window as he passed. Slowly, I took off the safety catch and raised the gun high. Gearstick’s quick panting body pushed against me. I imagined his ears pricked forward. I heard the steps close in, three more I reckoned; I nuzzled the stock on my shoulder. Three, two, one:

‘What the fuck do you want?’ My hand, steady as a rock.

‘Jesus,’ he shouted, jumping back.

Gearstick unleashed the best bit of barking he had in him, pushing the fecker until he stumbled and fell on his arse. Stood over him, his teeth bared, ready to launch once I gave the command.

‘Don’t move,’ I yelled, as he attempted to reach his hand inside his zippy.

‘No, man. No. It’s cool.’

‘Don’t fecking “man” me.’

‘Listen man, sir, I mean, sir. You have it all wrong. I’m David Flynn from the Seniors’ Club in Duncashel. I have a badge and leaflets.’

My phone rang in my pocket. ‘’Bout feckin’ time,’ I said to Robert, jamming it between my head and free shoulder, ‘I could be dead out here. This lad says his name is David Flynn, from Senior something or other, in Duncashel. Check it out and call me back. You might want to hurry, my finger’s getting fierce sweaty on the trigger.’

I looked at the boy. That’s all he seemed now, a terrified boy. I lowered the gun slightly. Gearstick, no longer interested in frightening the bejesus out of him either it seemed, began to sniff at his shoes.

‘What does this Seniors’ Club do when it’s at home?’ I asked, as we waited.

‘We run groups.’

‘Groups?’

‘Groups. Like friendship groups. And arranging for people to call by to see how you’re doing, like. Although, that mightn’t be your thing,’ he said looking at the gun, ‘there’s bingo. And yoga. And outings and…’

My phone rang. Robert again.

‘Aye. Right,’ I said when he’d finished telling me all I needed to know about this boyo on the ground. I pressed the red button to end the call.