Rory

Saturday morning was a busy time for driving tests. The waiting area was largely occupied by teens and their parents, the atmosphere thick with nerves. Emmet greeted a pretty Indian girl whose arms were hugged around herself: presumably someone from school.

‘Hi, Kiara.’ He sat down. Rory took the seat on the other side and started to scroll through his phone, to create the illusion he wasn’t listening in.

‘Hi,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so nervous, I feel sick.’

Emmet gave the impression of being relaxed, but Rory knew that he was just as anxious as the girl.

‘What time are you?’

‘Ten fifteen,’ she said.

‘I’m ten thirty.’

‘Hey, I really like your tattoo.’

The tattoo was a simple Celtic braid on Emmet’s upper arm, barely a week old. Rachel had convinced Rory to give their consent and Emmet had lost no time in pulling up his sleeve. He claimed that the tattoo was a recognition of his Irish heritage. It was also, evidently, a convenient talking point with girls.

Kiara ended up with a stern-faced, middle-aged woman. Fifteen minutes later, Emmet was also assigned a woman, younger and less stern in appearance. He completed the appropriate paperwork before he and the tester departed through a special exit. Rory felt sentimental watching the door close behind them. This was a huge milestone. If Emmet passed, he would soon be asking to borrow the car, maybe even saving up for his own set of wheels. He and Rachel should probably compile some rules. What time Emmet was allowed stay out until, how often he could borrow the car, how many people he could give lifts to, contributing towards petrol, that kind of thing.

Rory caught the eye of Kiara’s mother. ‘Christ, if I feel this nervous, I can only imagine how they feel.’

She smiled politely and went back to her phone.

His thoughts drifted to Sean. Rory had sent the family in Ireland a heads up that their youngest was going through another rough patch. The siblings had offered to send money, to help Sean get a bond together so he could rent another place. Because of the distance, money was all they could reasonably offer. Money and sympathy. But Sean needed more. He needed counselling, rehabilitation, someone he’d listen to, and someone or something he cared for enough to motivate him to change.

Maybe it was time for Sean to cut his losses and return to Ireland. He needed a circuit breaker, that was for sure. Their parents could have another go at setting him on the straight and narrow, with the help of his siblings, who were older and more resourceful now.

Rory drafted a message to Fiona, the oldest.

Hi Fi. What if we all pitched in and bought Sean a ticket home for Christmas? It would do him good to get away from some questionable friends he has here, and the wider family might be able to help him in a way that I haven’t managed to. Just an idea. R

He sent it and felt enormous relief. It was the middle of the night in Ireland, hours before he’d hear their opinion, but it was the most constructive idea he’d had about Sean in years. Would Sean be on board, though? He’d definitely be keen for a paid holiday, but a permanent relocation might take some convincing.

The air-con was turned up too high, probably to counteract all the nervous perspiration. He wondered how Emmet was faring. He decided to go outside, bask in the sun’s warmth while he waited.

His phone rang just as the automatic doors parted. At the unfamiliar number, his first thought was that it was something to do with Sean.

‘Hello?’

‘Rory Sullivan, isn’t it?’

‘That’s me, yes.’

‘Been talking to the police recently?’

‘What?’

‘The drug squad said they got a “tip-off”. You know the first place they searched when they came to my house?’

‘I have no idea, mate. Who the fuck is this?’ Unfortunately, Rory knew exactly who it was.

‘They went straight upstairs, to the attic,’ Cabrera said. ‘Didn’t find anything, but it’s odd, don’t you think, that they looked there first?’

‘I don’t think,’ Rory stated, hearing the thin bravado in his voice. ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.’

‘My wife and kid were terrified. It’s intimidating having your house invaded like that. Doesn’t make any difference if it’s cops or criminals who’re doing it. Know what I mean?’

‘Are you threatening me?’ Rory asked, watching a car with L plates turn into the carpark, recognising the driver as Kiara.

‘Just saying it better not be you who provided the tip-off. And if I find out it was you, I’ll personally make sure that your wife and kids are as terrified as mine were.’ Cabrera hung up and Rory lowered himself to sit on the edge of one of the raised garden beds.

A few weeks ago, after he learned that Cabrera had been arrested, Rory had made an anonymous call to Crime Stoppers from a public phone box in the city. Cabrera had already been charged, so it wasn’t the tip-off that had led to his house being raided or his being taken into custody. Rory simply provided details of the box of cash, a description, including where he’d found it and the date. He thought the information might assist the investigation in some small way: it always helps to know what you’re looking for. He was motivated by the prospect of Cabrera being convicted when he finally got to court. And by the desire to get drugs off the streets and away from vulnerable people like his brother.

He’d convinced himself that the anonymous phone call couldn’t be traced, that he wasn’t putting himself or his family in the firing line. But he hadn’t counted on Cabrera’s intuition. The man seemed to have a sixth sense, suspecting from the outset that Rory had the potential to snitch. The question was, how far would he go to seek revenge on suspected informers? Would he even care that Rory hadn’t provided the initial tip-off?

He felt like throwing up, purging his breakfast into the yellow perennials in the garden bed outside the test centre.