‘What were the terms?’
It hurt to remember. ‘One-off payment of twenty thousand Euros. For future services rendered.’
‘And that was, what? Ten to each sister?’
I groaned. ‘Hell. She told you.’
‘There’s nothing else that could really keep you here, is there?’ Lilith was suddenly gentle. ‘I mean, it wasn’t just your habit – you can pick that shit up anywhere. And this is her speciality, after all. Threatening the people we... well, we care about.’
There was no longer any point in keeping this, the last of my big secrets. Suddenly I wanted her to know everything. ‘Niamh. She’ll be nineteen now. And Sinéad. Fourteen. God, the pair of them are beautiful. All three of us named in a blaze of pissed-up nationalistic splendour, and none of us with the same da.’ I couldn’t remember the last time I had spoken their names out loud. ‘Couple of months after I tried to do the runner – the do with the police helicopter, yeah? – I’d had enough. Wanted out, whatever it took. Rattled until I’d saved up enough to do the job. Felt like it was the easiest thing in the world.’
‘But?’
‘Ha. Always that ‘but’. I woke up in here with a tube down my throat and Doctor Parnell draining my stomach into a bucket.’
Bran whined in protest at the close embrace and I let her go. She padded over to Lilith, who reached a hand out to pet her. ‘What did she do?’
‘Two newspaper clippings from Dublin waiting for me once I’d slept it off. Both on page bloody thirteen, or something – pikeys don’t make front page unless we’re the ones causing the trouble. Unconnected incidents on the same estate. An eleven-year old kid assaulted on her way home from school, and a fire in a block of flats. Sixteen-year old girl treated for smoke inhalation. Less than twenty four hours after I’d swallowed the last tablet.’
I was grateful for Lilith’s composure. Any sympathy would have cut like a knife right then. She just gave a nod and asked, ‘How?’
‘The O’Halloran family. Well, one in particular. Coyle’s identical twin – Ciaran. He would have done both jobs for free. Actually, he’s the kind of guy who would have paid, just for the sport. Makes Coyle look like the Dalai Lama.’ I dug a nail into the skin by my left thumbnail for reassurance and pulled until a tiny sphere of blood appeared. ‘So anyway, Coyle, and Ciaran, and Blaine – they still know where the girls live. They know and I don’t. Not anymore. I’ve done my best to be a good boy ever since. So there you have it.’
Lilith sat back, one hand still rhythmically stroking Bran’s ears, and considered everything I’d told her. She looked completely spent. ‘Thank you. Thank you for your honesty. It’s... refreshing. Around here, I mean.’
‘Any time. So. What now?’
‘Me? I’m going for a run.’
‘That’s not...’
‘I know. Truth is, I can’t think about it, Finn. Not now. So I’m going to do a few hundred more circuits around the same bloody island. By my calculations, if I’d have been running in a straight line, I’d be in Kazakhstan by now.’
‘It’s meant to be nice this time of year.’
‘Yeah? Might try it. Better than fucking Northumberland.’ She released Bran so that she came trotting back to me. ‘And you?’
‘Sleep, if it’ll come. If not, I’ll read. Nothing heavy. I’ve got one of Henry’s poof style magazines lurking somewhere, if you didn’t shovel it up in your blitz.’ I looked around the transformed space for the first time. ‘Wow. Would you look at that? I have a floor. Nice to know something good came out of all this.’
Lilith stood to leave. ‘Yup. We’re both screwed all to hell, but at least you’ve got a nice tidy room.’
‘Silver linings and all that.’
‘Yeah, silver linings.’ Lilith scratched Bran behind the ears, and my dog gave a soft grunt of pleasure. ‘Try and get some rest, huh?’ She picked up the bags of rubbish and left. I covered my head with a pillow and knew that sleep was beyond me.
Chapter Sixteen
Lilith
Following Blaine’s latest twist of the knife, we had weeks of warped normality to lull me into complacency. The summer reached its late peak and I hid in my studio and engrossed myself in the portrait that I was now treating as a technical drawing until something resembling inspiration ever felt like turning up.