Barney, there’s no denying you’ve a way with words—’
Callaghan switched off. He wondered if he’d ever care enoughabout anything – or be lonely enough or desperate enough – to make a phone call to tell strangers how he felt about anything. Maybe the Barneys were even less connected to the world around them than Callaghan was.
He finished the Scotch, considered pouring a third and decided against. A drink or two topped off the day. Go much further and it’d feel like he was giving in to something.
On the green, across from the Hive, he could see the abandoned embers of a fire the kids had built earlier. The cider party was over.
Lying on the bed, Callaghan let himself surrender to his tiredness, the noises from the apartments above and below and from each side combining into a comforting kind of low-level hubbub.
A good day
.
These days, Lar Mackendrick seldom drank alcohol. After his brother Jo-Jo’s death, when Lar took on the burden of running the business, the pressure and the drink and the grief almost killed him. He’d got through that, thank God, and now that he was secure in his health and his fitness he allowed himself just the occasional drink, late at night.
May was in bed, the house was quiet. Lar sat by the large gas-flamed fireplace, in his white leather armchair, a glass of Merlot in his heavy John Rocha crystal. Thoughts of Walter Bennett hovered, but Lar dismissed them. He was satisfied that Walter hadn’t gone to the police, wasn’t wired for sound. Too cowed. Little man, drowning in fear. He’d get back to Lar, looking for hope. Now that he had made contact, he was just one small part of the problem – and one not too difficult to fix.
Lar found the page in his book with a corner turned down. He opened
The Art of War
.
When able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him
.
Day Three
Chapter 8
Noise
.
Stopped now, but the memory echoing.
His eyelids heavy, his mouth dry, Danny Callaghan heard the thudding noise that was pulling him into consciousness, but he didn’t know what it was. In the dark he could see the luminous numbers on the clock beside the bed, but his mind was too clogged to register what they meant.
Thump – thump – thump
.
Callaghan sat up. Then another trio of thumps, loud and slow and evenly spaced, a fist on the door of the apartment. It was the sound of someone who wasn’t going away. Up on one elbow, Callaghan leaned forward and squinted at the clock.
6.22
.
Again, the
thump, thump, thump
. Then the doorbell, three jabs, then someone pressed the button and kept it pressed for at least ten seconds, followed by a repeat of the thumping.
Before the bell stopped ringing Callaghan bent over, reached down under the bed and grasped the hammer lying on the carpet. His heels off the floor, trying for stealth, arms wide to compensate his uncertain balance, he moved as quickly as he could across the room and stood off to one side of the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Come on, open up. Police.
Garda Siochana
.’
Possible
.
Maybe
.
Maybe not
.
Sooner or later the police would catch up and start asking questions about what happened in the Blue Parrot. Maybe this was it, maybe it was the other thing. It had been like this the first few weeks after he got out of prison. Always alert, always half expecting. Then, when nothing happened, he relaxed a bit. Now it took something real, like a couple of guys walking into a pub wearing motorcycle helmets, to bring the edge back.
Or someone thumping on the door in the night.
‘Show me some identification.’
‘Christ sake.’
A second voice. ‘Police. We don’t have all night.’
‘I’m not opening up until—’
A small white card appeared on the floor, pushed underneath the
Callaghan switched off. He wondered if he’d ever care enoughabout anything – or be lonely enough or desperate enough – to make a phone call to tell strangers how he felt about anything. Maybe the Barneys were even less connected to the world around them than Callaghan was.
He finished the Scotch, considered pouring a third and decided against. A drink or two topped off the day. Go much further and it’d feel like he was giving in to something.
On the green, across from the Hive, he could see the abandoned embers of a fire the kids had built earlier. The cider party was over.
Lying on the bed, Callaghan let himself surrender to his tiredness, the noises from the apartments above and below and from each side combining into a comforting kind of low-level hubbub.
A good day
.
These days, Lar Mackendrick seldom drank alcohol. After his brother Jo-Jo’s death, when Lar took on the burden of running the business, the pressure and the drink and the grief almost killed him. He’d got through that, thank God, and now that he was secure in his health and his fitness he allowed himself just the occasional drink, late at night.
May was in bed, the house was quiet. Lar sat by the large gas-flamed fireplace, in his white leather armchair, a glass of Merlot in his heavy John Rocha crystal. Thoughts of Walter Bennett hovered, but Lar dismissed them. He was satisfied that Walter hadn’t gone to the police, wasn’t wired for sound. Too cowed. Little man, drowning in fear. He’d get back to Lar, looking for hope. Now that he had made contact, he was just one small part of the problem – and one not too difficult to fix.
Lar found the page in his book with a corner turned down. He opened
The Art of War
.
When able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him
.
Day Three
Chapter 8
Noise
.
Stopped now, but the memory echoing.
His eyelids heavy, his mouth dry, Danny Callaghan heard the thudding noise that was pulling him into consciousness, but he didn’t know what it was. In the dark he could see the luminous numbers on the clock beside the bed, but his mind was too clogged to register what they meant.
Thump – thump – thump
.
Callaghan sat up. Then another trio of thumps, loud and slow and evenly spaced, a fist on the door of the apartment. It was the sound of someone who wasn’t going away. Up on one elbow, Callaghan leaned forward and squinted at the clock.
6.22
.
Again, the
thump, thump, thump
. Then the doorbell, three jabs, then someone pressed the button and kept it pressed for at least ten seconds, followed by a repeat of the thumping.
Before the bell stopped ringing Callaghan bent over, reached down under the bed and grasped the hammer lying on the carpet. His heels off the floor, trying for stealth, arms wide to compensate his uncertain balance, he moved as quickly as he could across the room and stood off to one side of the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Come on, open up. Police.
Garda Siochana
.’
Possible
.
Maybe
.
Maybe not
.
Sooner or later the police would catch up and start asking questions about what happened in the Blue Parrot. Maybe this was it, maybe it was the other thing. It had been like this the first few weeks after he got out of prison. Always alert, always half expecting. Then, when nothing happened, he relaxed a bit. Now it took something real, like a couple of guys walking into a pub wearing motorcycle helmets, to bring the edge back.
Or someone thumping on the door in the night.
‘Show me some identification.’
‘Christ sake.’
A second voice. ‘Police. We don’t have all night.’
‘I’m not opening up until—’
A small white card appeared on the floor, pushed underneath the
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