Jig liked the word SNAP. The sound the wipers made when he ripped them off the car. And when he wrote the letters on the page, his tongue curled against his lips.
He took the path in jumps, inches from the canal’s black waters. But when he saw the swans, he stopped. They were clustered here and there, asleep, their long necks curled into their backs, their heads buried under layers of thick white feathers. Like little soft icebergs, lit up by streaks of yellow from overhead lights and the silver haze of the moon.
He had slipped out of his gaff no bother. When the bottle fell from his ma’s bed onto the floor, and the snorting started, that was the green light. He had kept on his tracksuit and runners so he was ready to go. He remembered to put on his gloves before taking the wipers and the note out from under his Man U pillow.
The canal was still. A gust of wind wrapped around Jig’s face, carrying a waft of roasted sweetness from the brewery. He checked the time on his phone: 2 a.m.
He ran, the wipers in his gloved hands and the note in his pocket.
He had a job to do for Ghost.
Mary heard a noise at the front door, then footsteps running off, light, like that of a child. She swung her arm to turn on the bedside lamp and knocked something over. Easing herself out, she placed the double picture frame back up, her eyes drawn towards the old photograph on the right. A fine big man, chest puffed out, a mop of black hair brushed to the side, eyes looking into the distance. It was her favourite of James.
She couldn’t help but glance at the photo next to it, taken years ago. Leo leaning forward, grabbing a friend’s head at his nineteenth birthday party, beaming a wide and wet smile.
Frozen images melted in her mind. James, sitting at the front window, watching and waiting for Leo to come home. James, on his deathbed in hospital, refusing to let the cancer hollow him out without seeing his son one last time. And Leo, when he did visit that time and looked for ten thousand euro.
‘Da, I need it, Da. They have a bullet for me . . .’
But James was lost in a nightmare world of pain and sweeping tides of morphine. Mary had roared at Leo to get out. It was the last time she heard from him. But not the last time she heard from the lowlifes who wanted their ten thousand euro.
She put on her slippers and reached for the dressing gown. At the tiny landing, she turned on the light for the bottom of the stairs and peered down. There were long black rods or something inside the door.
Instinctively she went to grab the railing, but stopped, remembering the top fitting had come out completely from the crumbling wall. She pressed her two hands against the walls either side and stepped down.
The black things were wipers. Her heart jumped.
Oh God, they must be from the car.
As she neared, she could see a piece of paper on the ground. A voice inside told her not to, but she picked it up, her hands shaking. She dragged a short breath.
SNAP. TALK TO COPS AGAIN UR NEK WIL B NXT.
Blood drained from her body. Her legs buckled.
As she fell, her head smacked against the edge of the hall table. The force of the blow twisted her head and shoulders around and she went crashing onto her back.
The note sailed into the air.
Her eyes fixed wide open, blinked once, then twice.
Jig ran his hand through the reeds. They were swaying and rustling now. He tingled at the sensation. The wind had grown teeth.
Lampposts rattled as he sprinted. The water was flowing stronger, spilling over the locks onto the chambers below.
He wondered what Ghost would say about the job. He imagined bony fingers tossing his hair and Ghost saying, ‘Good job, little man.’
I’ll be in big time with Ghost now, I will.
A swan stirred. It unfurled its neck and shook its tail.
Jig knew from the brown feathers it was a young swan. That was what his granda had said. A cygnet, he’d told him, was what they were called. He thought he could see a sprout of white feathers. Jig stopped and stared for a moment.
Then he karate-kicked the air and ran.