Chapter 1
If you're
standing between me and the goal, you're not my friend.
Rory
Cullen, CULLEN: The Autobiography
Cormac Kelly
nibbled on the inside of his ski mask. He'd been given the only one
without a mouth-hole and it was driving him nuts. The damp fibres
irritated his lips. He'd already swallowed four or five little balls
of chewed wool but couldn't stop himself from biting off another tiny
piece. They stuck to the walls of his dry throat. He'd be hawking up
hairballs all night.
It didn't matter
what line of work you were in, the new guy always got the crap. A ski
mask with no mouth-hole, a dinged-up old Ruger Security Six revolver
in serious need of a clean, and the shittiest job – babysitting.
The kidnapped man
slumped in the middle of a bare mattress pushed up against a damp
wall. The boy sat slightly apart from his father. His knees were
drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his shins. His head
tipped back to rest against the wall. He hadn't uttered a peep since
Big Frank had scared him with a few dummy digs for the camera. Once
or twice the boy had glanced at his father with disappointment etched
deep in his face, as if he wondered how his guardian, his hero, his
protector, had let them get into this mess.
And it didn't look
as if Daddy was going to spring into action mode any time soon.
Although the boy wouldn't understand it, this was the best thing his
father could do for him. Heroics got people killed.
Big Frank
blundered into the room. He moved without grace and his footsteps
clapped like thunder. The boy tensed at the sight of the juggernaut
who'd bullied him for the camera. Built like a silverback on
steroids, Big Frank would scare the life out of most men. Put him in
a ski mask and he became the stuff of nightmares. His lips stretched
wide as he treated Cormac to a craggy-toothed smile through the
mouth-hole of his ski mask.
"The boys are
waiting for the bitch at the cottage."
The father's frame
tensed. He breathed deep but didn't complain. The boy shot a death
stare at Big Frank. Looked like he was ready to jump up and lamp the
giant. Fiery wee bastard.
Cormac kept an eye
on the boy as he responded to Big Frank. "Great."
"Aye, she'll
be scared shitless. That wee video turned out a beezer."
"Okay."
"Amazing what
you can do these days, isn't it? I mind a time when you'd have to
send fingers through the post to get what you wanted. Everything's
digital now."
"Aye."
"It's like
living in the future."
Cormac could see
that Big Frank's brainless chatter poked at the boy like a rusty
spike. His little fists clenched up into white-knuckled knots of
fury. He was bound to do something stupid if Cormac let the oaf
ramble on.
"Would you
put the kettle on, mate?" Cormac said. "I've been gasping
for hours."
Big Frank took a
step back. "Get away to fuck. You think this is a day at the
office?"
"Don't know,
big man. Aren't you the one gabbing away like we're on our tea
break?"
Big Frank's teeth
disappeared behind a tight-lipped slit. He turned in a clumsy
half-circle and headed for the door.
Cormac couldn't
resist a parting shot. "And tell that other fat shite-bag to
come in here and do a turn. He's not even offered me so much as a
toilet break."
"You can piss
yourself, you wanker."
Big Frank
clattered out of the room and slammed the door behind him. The father
and son flinched, though Cormac thought he could see the trace of a
smirk on the boy's face. He was tempted to engage the young fellah in
some idle banter but knew it to be a bad idea. So he went back to
chewing on his damp balaclava. It passed the time.
###
Lydia
Gallagher stepped onto the cast-iron doormat of the cottage and
rummaged through her handbag for the key. Her rain-soaked hair clung
to her face. She wished for an umbrella, gave up the hunt for the key
and hammered on the door with the side of her fist.
Footsteps thudded
on the other side of the windowless slab of oak and she brightened in
anticipation of John's welcome. It had been a long day and she craved
a decent glass of Pinot. She turned to wave her taxi away. Its tail
lights disappeared behind the hedging on the side of the main road.
The door creaked
open. Lydia gazed deep into the twin barrels of a sawn-off. The
shotgun's hollow stare watched without passion. She took one step
backwards. Gravel scrunched under her heel.
Run.
But she couldn't.
Lydia looked over
the sawn-off at the gunman. Eyes as dispassionate as the shotgun
muzzle nestled in the peepholes of a black ski mask. She raised her
hands.
The gunman reached
out and grabbed Lydia's lapels with his free hand. He kept the
shotgun trained on her face and walked backwards into the hallway.
Lydia followed without resistance. She listened out for her family.
Nothing. The light in the kitchen was out. A telltale sign that
Mattie, her son, hadn't mooched in the cupboards for a pre-dinner
snack. Whatever was going on had started a few hours ago.
"Where are
they?"
The gunman said
nothing. He yanked her into the living room.
The television
played on mute. Two more masked men sat on the sofa and gazed into
the pale blue light of a documentary about sharks. They didn't look
up at her, but Lydia noticed one of them lift a handgun from the arm
of the sofa and thumb a little switch on the side. Acknowledgement
enough.
She tried again.
"My son. My husband. Where are they?"
The silence crept
into her bones. She could have screamed, but it seemed wrong. Like
belting out a football chant in a chapel.
The first man
shoved her into the armchair closest to the TV – furthest from the
door. He stood in front of her. Lowered his sawn-off.
"What the
fuck do you want?" Lydia was hyper-aware of her London accent in
the eerie calm. She could feel the panic take hold of her heart. Claw
at her lungs. Tie knots in her bowels.
The man with the
sawn-off leaned forward and back-handed her across the face.
Instinctively she kicked out at him. Her leg arced upwards as she
aimed her shin at his groin. He parried her kick with his knee and
slammed the palm of his hand into her forehead. The dull thwack
juddered her vision and shoved her head against the back of the seat.
She blinked away black dots. The pain faded quickly but left a
hangover of weakness and humiliation.
The men on the
sofa shifted forward and perched on the edge of their seat. With
elbows on knees, they watched. Lydia tried not to think about what
they might be expecting to happen. She squirmed. Needed to pee.
"Take off
your shoes."
The gunman's
Belfast growl matched his mask.
Lydia raised her
hands to ward off another attack. "What is this? I don't… Are
you an IRA man?"
He swept her hands
to the side and slapped her again. It stung like he'd shoved her face
in nettles. One of the sofa jockeys sniggered.
"Shut your
mouth and do as you're told, wee girl."
Lydia kicked off
her heels. The tingle of fresh circulation in her toes didn't bring
the usual relief. All she felt was fear and confusion. She didn't
understand why he wanted her shoes. Maybe he was worried that she'd
try and hit him with one of them. She prayed that he wouldn't ask her
to remove anything else.
The gunman punted
her shoes into the corner of the room.
"Give me your
handbag." In his thick Belfast accent it sounded like he wanted
her hawndbeg.
Lydia handed it
over. He studied the brand logo on the buckle.
"Is this a
real Lewis Vuitton?"
Lydia paused a
second before she nodded.
He curled his lip
in distaste and tossed the bag into the corner with her shoes. The
contents clattered.
"Now your
coat."
"How far is
this going to go?"
"Don't
flatter yourself, love."
Lydia struggled
out of her knee-length coat. She was afraid to stand in case she
earned another slap so she shifted from side to side as she dragged
it out from under her bum. Just another indignity.
The gunman threw
the woollen coat into the corner and moved to the other armchair. A
black canvas holdall sat on the cushion. He unzipped it and poked
around inside.
Lydia's skin
tightened into gooseflesh. The house was cold. It smelt wrong. The
scent of strange men.
The gunman pulled
a smartphone from the holdall and handed it to one of the sniggering
sofa jockeys. "Get the thing working."
He tapped the
screen a few times and passed it back to the gunman. He brought it to
Lydia and dropped it in her lap.
"Watch."
Lydia picked up
the phone and squinted at the little display.
A masked man stood
over Mattie – her thirteen-year-old son – with his fists curled.
Mattie scuttled backwards on all fours, his mouth pulled back in a
ghost train grimace.
Lydia sprang out
of the armchair and launched herself at the gunman. She clawed at his
eyes and caught a handful of ski mask. The gunman danced backwards
and batted her hands away. He was light on his feet and skilled.
Lydia shrieked and stepped up her attack. Swung arms and legs at the
dancing bastard. He sidestepped. Buried the butt of his sawn-off into
her solar plexus. Air whooshed from her lungs. She wheezed and
crumpled face-first into the carpet. Hitched her breath, sputtered
and pulled her knees under her chest.
The ten seconds of
footage from the video clip played on a loop in her mind.
She cried.
A rough hand
seized a fistful of hair from the back of her head and hauled her to
her feet. She tried to strike out behind her with the heel of her
shoeless foot. Earned a kick in the backside for her troubles. Hot
breath blasted in her ear.
"Settle
yourself."
The fight drained
from her and she sagged. The gunman practically held her up by the
hair. He led her back to the armchair and dropped her into it.
The gunman
adjusted his ski mask and sighed. "Your son hasn't been hurt.
Yet. Neither has your husband. But we will hurt them if we
don't get what we want. Hurt them a lot and then kill them. Let that
sit with you for a second or two. See how it makes you feel."
Lydia gripped the
arms of her chair. She opened her mouth to speak.
The gunman raised
a gloved finger to the lower part of his ski mask. Lydia clamped her
mouth shut.
"Now, Missus
Gallagher. You listen to me and do exactly as I say."
She swiped fresh
tears from her eyes with the sleeve of her suit jacket. "Okay."
###
Cormac had
almost gnawed himself a ragged mouth-hole when Paddy waddled into the
room. Paddy weighed about as much as Big Frank did, but he was made
up of doughy fat that drooped from his bones like custard in a
condom. His arms were always in motion as if they couldn't find a
casual spot on his soft body to rest against. Paddy was the lame duck
of the crew. A blood connection with the boss was the only thing that
booked him a place on these jobs. And yet, he still ranked higher
than Cormac.
Paddy brandished
the hi-tech phone that they'd filmed the boy and Big Frank on. "I've
the woman on the blower. She's to talk to the kid."
Cormac flapped his
hand at the boy. Paddy walked past the father to hand over the
mobile. The boy took a deep breath before speaking.
"Hello…?
Yeah, it's Mattie, Mum." He screwed up his face. "I'm
fine." Then he glanced at his father, his young face hardened.
"Yeah, he's okay too."
Paddy snatched the
phone away from Mattie's ear and pressed it to his own. "Right,
that's all you get for now, missus." He disconnected the call.
Cormac nipped
across the room to cut the departing Paddy off at the door.
"Lend us the
mobile for a bit, will you?"
Paddy gave Cormac
one of his watery-eyed looks. His nose twitched visibly under his ski
mask. "What for?"
"I'm bored
shitless here. Wouldn't mind a wee tinker on it to pass the time."
"You going to
call one of them dodgy numbers, big lad? Heavy breathing and all
that?"
"Fuck off.
I'll just piss about on the apps or something."
"What are
apps?"
Cormac shook his
head. "Can I have it or not?"
Paddy shrugged and
handed over the touch-screen phone. "Whatever. Just don't get
too distracted, all right? You're meant to be working."
"No sweat,
boss."
Paddy puffed his
chest and his considerable man-boobs strained the front of his black
cotton shirt. Suitably inflated by an ounce of respect, he gave
Cormac a curt nod and waddled out.
Cormac turned his
back to the family, gave the phone a quick once over, then flipped
open a tiny flap on the side of the casing. He took a miniscule
memory card from the watch pocket of his jeans and slipped it into
the slot. A few taps of the screen later and he had the video of Big
Frank threatening Mattie on the card. He ejected his little piece of
evidence and tucked it back into his watch pocket.
A present for his
handler.
