Eight Ball Boogie - Declan Burke [83]
Katie stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Cradling her swollen fist, whimpering when her hand moved. Her complexion was cream cheese, the orange mop of hair in shocking contrast to the pale below. She seemed oblivious.
In the hospital car park, I leaned across and touched her cheek. She didn’t flinch. I was tempted to touch the ugly welts on her throat but I got out the car, locked it, crunched through the snow to the hospital. I knew it was callous thing to do, leaving her alone. I knew that. I didn’t feel it.
The antiseptic smell washed over me when the automatic doors slid back, the blast of heat giving me goose bumps. The girl behind the reception desk was mid-twenties, homely, eyeing me over a pair of half-moon glasses as I made for the desk, begrudging the effort of sliding the window back. I didn’t hold it against her. No one wants to be in hospital on Christmas Eve, least of all the staff.
“Hi,” I breezed, digging deep. “I’d like to check on a friend of mine?”
“I’m sorry.” Her tone that let me know that, whatever she was apologising for, it was my fault. “Visiting hours finished two hours ago.”
“That’s okay. I just want to know how he’s doing. He came in this morning. Hit and run. His name is Herbie O’Malley.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, a mechanical tone, “but we could only release that information to a family member.”
“I’m a family member.”
She frowned.
“You just said you were his friend.”
“He’s a cousin, actually. But we’re good mates too.”
“I’m sorry, only immediate family members are privy to that kind of information.”
“His family are away for Christmas. I’m the only one around. I’m going to be ringing them later, and I’d like to let them know how he is.”
“You’re not going to go away until you find out, are you?”
I smiled, apologetic.
“Alright,” she sighed. “Wait a minute.”
She pulled the window closed, so I couldn’t hear what she was saying, made a couple of calls. Pulled the window open again, holding the phone against her none too impressive embonpoint.
“Herbie O’Malley?”
“That’s right.”
“And you are?”
“Frankie Byrne. His cousin.”
“Hold on.”
Back went the glass door. She finished the call. Again with the window.
“Herbie O’Malley wasn’t involved in a hit and run.”
“No? I heard he was, in the pub. The boys said he’d been mangled.”
“Well, he’s badly hurt alright. He’s still in intensive care. He’s going to need extensive surgery but the ECTs showed up positive. There’s no serious tissue damage and he’s in a stable condition.”
“Thanks a million. You’ve been a great help.”
She said: “Don’t you want to see him?”
“I thought visiting hours were finished.”
“They are. But in your case…”
Some people are born spoofers. Other people die every time they lie. She knew it sounded wrong and looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. I scoped the foyer for a night porter or security guard but we were alone in the vast hall. I reckoned I had about five minutes, if that, before the Dibble arrived.
“That’s decent, cheers. Where’s intensive care?”
“Fourth floor. Take a right when you get out of the lift.”
I turned away from the desk, hesitated, turned back. She had the window half-closed. I played the hunch.
“I don’t suppose you could let me know how Robbie Callaghan is?”
“Who?”
“Robbie Callaghan.” I figured that Galway would have booked Gonzo into the morgue under that name. “It’s either Robbie Callaghan or Eddie Rigby.”
“You don’t know what his name is?”
“He uses a pseudonym. Does some writing for the paper.”
“Oh, right. And is he family?”
I grinned and she smiled, co-conspirators.
“No, he’s just a mate. He overdid it on the pints last night. They brought him in to have his