Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(131)
“Go for it. Let’s do this right.”
Leaving me on my own put a wary flash in his eye, but he didn’t have a choice. He took the glasses out to the kitchen: freezer door opening, ice cubes popping. The whiskey was serious stuff, Tyrconnell single malt. “You’ve got taste,” I said.
“What, you’re surprised?” Shay came back shaking ice cubes around the glasses, to chill them. “And don’t be asking me for a mixer.”
“Don’t insult me.”
“Good. Anyone who’d mix this doesn’t deserve it.” He poured us each three fingers and pushed a glass across the table to me. “Sláinte,” he said, lifting the other one.
I said, “Here’s to us.” The glasses clinked together. The whiskey burned gold going down, barley and honey. All that rage had evaporated right out of me; I was as cool and gathered and ready as I had ever been on any job. In all the world there was no one left except the two of us, watching each other across that rickety table, with the stark lamplight throwing shadows like war paint across Shay’s face and piling up great heaps of them in every corner. It felt utterly familiar, almost soothing, like we had been practicing for this moment all our lives.
“So,” Shay said. “How does it feel, being home?”
“It’s been a hoot. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
“Tell us: were you serious about coming around from now on? Or were you only humoring Carmel?”
I grinned at him. “Would I ever? No, I meant it, all right. Are you delighted and excited?”
A corner of Shay’s lip twisted upwards. “Carmel and Jackie think it’s because you missed your family. They’re in for a shock, somewhere down the line.”
“I’m wounded. Are you saying I don’t care about my family? Not you, maybe. But the rest of them.”
Shay laughed, into his glass. “Right. You’ve got no agenda here.”
“I’ve got news for you: everyone always has an agenda. Don’t worry your pretty little head, though. Agenda or no, I’ll be here often enough to keep Carmel and Jackie happy.”
“Good. Remind me to show you how to get Da on and off the jacks.”
I said, “Since you won’t be around as much, next year. What with the bike shop and all.”
Something flickered, deep down in Shay’s eyes. “Yeah. That’s right.”
I raised my glass to him. “Fair play to you. I’d say you’re looking forward to that.”
“I’ve earned it.”
“You have, of course. Here’s the thing, though: I’ll be in and out, but it’s not like I’m going to be moving in here.” I shot an amused look around the flat. “Some of us have lives, you know what I mean?”
That flicker again, but he kept his voice even. “I didn’t ask you to move anywhere.”
I shrugged. “Well, someone’s got to be around. Maybe you didn’t know this, but Da . . . He’s not really on for going into a home.”
“And I didn’t ask for your opinion on that, either.”
“Course not. Just a word to the wise: he told me he’s got contingency plans. I’d be counting his tablets, if I were you.”
The spark caught, flared. “Hang on a second. Are you trying to tell me my duty to Da? You?”
“Christ, no. I’m only passing on the info. I wouldn’t want you having to live with the guilt if it all went wrong.”
“What bloody guilt? Count his tablets yourself, if you want them counted. I’ve looked after the whole lot of yous, all my life. It’s not my turn any more.”
I said, “You know something? Sooner or later, you’re going to have to ditch this idea that you’ve spent your life being everyone’s little knight in shining armor. Don’t get me wrong, it’s entertaining to watch, but there’s a fine line between illusion and delusion, and you’re bouncing along that line.”
Shay shook his head. “You don’t have a clue,” he said. “Not the first f*cking clue.”
I said, “No? Kevin and I were having a little chat, the other day, about how you looked after us. You know what sprang to mind—Kevin’s mind, not mine? You locking the pair of us in the basement of Number Sixteen. Kev was what, two, maybe three? Thirty years later, and he still didn’t like going in there. He felt well looked after that night, all right.”
Shay threw himself backwards, chair tilting dangerously, and burst out laughing. The lamplight turned his eyes and mouth into shapeless dark hollows. “That night,” he said. “My Jaysus, yeah. Do you want to know what happened that night?”
“Kevin pissed himself. He was practically catatonic. I ripped my hands to coleslaw trying to get the boards off the windows so we could get out. That’s what happened.”
Shay said, “Da got fired that day.”
Da got fired on a regular basis, when we were kids, up until people more or less quit hiring him to begin with. Those days were nobody’s favorites, specially since he usually ended up with a week’s wages in lieu of notice. Shay said, “It gets late, he’s still not home. So Ma puts the lot of us to bed—this was when the four of us were all on the mattresses in the back bedroom, before Jackie came along and the girls went into the other room—and she’s giving out seven shades of shite: this time she’s locking the door on him, he can sleep in the gutter where he belongs, she hopes he gets bet up and run over and thrown in jail all at once. Kevin’s whingeing because he wants his daddy, f*ck only knows why, and she tells him if he doesn’t shut up and go asleep, Daddy won’t come home ever again. I ask what will we do then, and she says, ‘You’ll be the man of the house; you’ll have to look after us. You’d do a better job than that bollix, anyway.’ If Kev was two, what would I have been? Eight, yeah?”