Faithful Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #3)(136)

I said, “So it just happened. Again. You’re an unlucky fella, aren’t you?”

“Shit happens.”

“Maybe. I might even fall for that, if it wasn’t for one thing: that note. That didn’t suddenly occur to you after Kevin went out the window: gee, I know what would come in useful right now, that piece of paper that I’ve had hanging around for twenty-two years. You didn’t trundle off home to fetch it, take the risk of being seen coming out of Number Sixteen or going back in. You already had it on you. You had the whole thing planned.”

Shay’s eyes came up to meet mine and they were blazing blue, lit up with an incandescent hate that almost knocked me back in my chair. “You’ve got some neck, you little bastard, do you know that? Some f*cking brass neck, getting all superior with me. Of all people.”

Slowly, in the corners, the shadows clotted into thick dark lumps. Shay said, “Did you think I’d forget, just because that would suit you?”

I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, you do. Calling me a murderer—”

“Here’s a little tip for you. If you don’t like being called a murderer, don’t kill people.”

“—when I know and you know: you’re no different. Big man, coming back here with your badge and your cop talk and your cop buddies—You can fool anyone you like, fool yourself, go right ahead, you don’t fool me. You’re the same as me. The exact same.”

“No I’m not. Here’s the difference: I’ve never murdered anyone. Is that too complex for you?”

“Because you’re such a good guy, yeah, such a saint? What a load of shite, you give me the sick—That’s not morals, that’s not holiness. The only reason you never murdered anyone is because your dick beat your brain. If you hadn’t been * whipped, you’d be a killer now.”

Silence, just the shadows seething and heaving in the corners and that telly gibbering mindlessly downstairs. There was a tiny terrible grin, like a spasm, on Shay’s mouth. For once in my life, I couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

I was eighteen, he was nineteen. It was a Friday night and I was blowing my dole in the Blackbird, which was not where I wanted to be. I wanted to be out dancing with Rosie, but this was after Matt Daly had put the kibosh on his daughter going anywhere near Jimmy Mackey’s son. So I was loving Rosie in secret, having a harder time keeping it hidden every week, and bashing my head off walls like a trapped animal looking for a way to make something, anything, change. On nights when I couldn’t take it any more, I got as hammered as I could afford and then picked fights with guys bigger than me.

Everything was going to plan, I had just headed up to the bar for my sixth or seventh and was pulling over a bar stool to lean on while I waited to get served—the barman was down the other end, having an in-depth argument about racing—when a hand came in and whipped the stool out of reach.

Go on, Shay said, swinging a leg over the stool. Go home.

Fuck off. I went last night.

So? Go again. I went twice last weekend.

It’s your turn.

He’ll be home any minute. Go.

Make me.

Which would only get both of us thrown out. Shay eyed me for another second, checking whether I meant it; then he shot me a disgusted look, slid off the stool and threw back one more swallow of his pint. Under his breath, savagely, to no one: If we’d any balls between the pair of us, we wouldn’t put up with this shite . . .

I said, We’d get rid of him.

Shay stopped moving, halfway through flipping up his collar, and stared at me. Throw him out, like?

No. Ma’d just take him back in. Sanctity of marriage, and all that shite.

Then what?

Like I said. Get rid of him.

After a moment: You’re serious.

I had hardly realized that myself, not till I saw the look on his face. Yeah. I am.

All around us the pub was buzzing, full to the ceiling with noise and warm smells and men’s laughter. The tiny circle between the two of us was still as ice. I was stone-cold sober.

You’ve been thinking about this.

Don’t tell me you haven’t.

Shay pulled the stool towards him and sat back down, without taking his eyes off me.

How?

I didn’t blink: one flinch and he would throw this away as kids’ rubbish, walk out and take our chance with him. He comes home pissed, how many nights a week? The stairs are falling to bits, the carpet’s ripped . . . Sooner or later, he’s going to trip and land four flights down, smack on his head. My heart was in my throat, just from hearing my voice say it out loud.

Shay took a long pull at his pint, thinking hard, and wiped his mouth with a knuckle. The fall mightn’t be enough. To do the job.

Might, might not. It’d be enough to explain why his head was smashed in, anyway.

Shay was watching me with a mixture of suspicion and, for the first time in our lives, respect. Why’re you telling me?

It’s a two-man gig.

Couldn’t go through with it on your own, you mean.

He might fight back, he might need moving, someone might wake up, we might need alibis . . . With one guy, more than likely something’d go pear-shaped, along the way. With two . . .

He hooked an ankle around the leg of another stool and pulled it towards us. Sit. Home can wait ten minutes.