Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [53]
“The Provies?”
“Yeah. Dissidents, call them whatever.” I shrugged the possibility off. Things were bad enough without dealing with the prospect of Provies chasing me down. “I’ve done nothing to piss them off, though. Far as I know.”
“But the Guards?”
“Branch. Thing is, I had that chat with Galway and Brady this morning, about Frank Conway. Except nothing got said, because Conway is a client of mine who happens to be involved in some very dodgy dealings. Maybe the Dibble aren’t getting their cut, maybe they think I’m in on it and taking me out was supposed to be some kind of warning to anyone who was thinking of doing the same. And maybe not. All I know is, they let me go quick smart after Gonzo died. They didn’t even search me properly. Either way, if the shooters were Dibble I won’t have to go to them. They’ll come looking for me.”
She sipped her wine, peeking out from behind the bob, which had fallen in front of her face. Sitting forward, chewing the inside of her lip. She looked vulnerable, tender and intensely desirable. I marvelled at the mind’s ability to create diversions in order to stave off self-destruction. To distract myself, I dug out the mobile and punched in a number. She answered on the second ring.
“Dee?”
“Harry?”
“Yeah. You okay?”
“Okay?” There was a short pause. Then: “You got me out of bed to drive eighty miles in the middle of the night, Ben developing pneumonia the whole way, and you won’t tell me why. Would you be okay, Harry?”
“Maybe not. But you sound fine. You’re there already?”
“No traffic. Why would there be? Any normal person would be tucked up in bed, asleep.”
“You’re different, Dee. You’re special. How’s Ben?”
“He’s asleep. What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, I swear. When I get there. Don’t leave the house, keep the doors locked, curtains pulled. Okay?”
“No it’s not ofuckingkay. Harry –”
“Have to go, Dee. Chat to you in the morning.”
I hung up, heaved a sigh of relief, switched the mobile off. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders. Then the weight changed its mind and sandbagged me across the back of the head. I slumped back into the armchair.
“You okay?” she asked. Again with the lip chewing and the peeking out from behind the bob.
“I’m grand. Really. I’m just too tired to deal with it now. It’ll hit tomorrow. All I need now is a quilt and a pillow.”
She put the glass of wine on the coffee table, held out her hand. I reached too. It felt soft and cool. She squeezed gently.
“The couch is too small. You’ll sleep better in bed.”
The couch you could have rafted down the Amazon but I was too tired to argue. I let her drag me out of the armchair and up the stairs to her bedroom. She went to the bathroom, which I took as my cue to get into bed. She gave me plenty of time to do it, which was just as well, every joint in my body was locked solid. There was some blood seeping through the bandage but it was nothing to write home about, not that there was anyone at home anymore. The pain had just about subsided to a tolerable throb.
When she came back she was wearing an over-sized T-shirt, a panda bear on the front. She got into bed, tucked me in, turned her back, staked a claim to some duvet.
“Katie?”
“Don’t spoil it, Harry.”
“No disrespect, but I’m a dying man.”
“Good.”
She slept. I lay there, floating above the big empty, hearing Gonzo call my name from its gaping maw.
17
I dozed fitfully, twisting myself into a swastika, waking fast every time I turned onto the wound. Morning was a shaft of light angling through a chink in the curtains, right between the eyes.
I rolled a cigarette, checked the bandage. The blob of raspberry jelly had settled, hardened. Katie still had her back turned to me, like she hadn’t moved all night, even though she’d been out to the bathroom twice. She had rucked the quilt and her hip was exposed all the way to the white cotton of her panties, the skin warm, downy and golden. I watched her until the outside world grew jealous and started to