Shay brooded over Lisa as he did his stretches. She didn’t even reply when he said he was off for a run. She just sat there at the kitchen table, hunched over her laptop, scrolling through sites. He could never figure out what she was so engrossed in. From the few glances he caught, they seemed to be various mum sites. She’d never tell him much when he asked.
The warmth of the sun rolled across his face, lifting his spirits. He pulled his shades down and headed for the canal. On days like this, it looked its best.
Crowe entered the station and headed straight for the stairs. Before she got any further, Grant called out to her from the public office.
‘Any plans for the weekend, Detective Crowe?’ Grant said, with a mischievous smile, greeted with groans from behind her.
‘Not really,’ Crowe replied, moving towards Grant. ‘Dare I ask why?’
‘Spring Session’s this weekend in Cork – the full three days, baby.’ Grant did a little sashay.
‘Any chance of those lazy banners doing any work,’ joked one of the lads in the office, to a few guffaws.
That still got up Crowe’s wick – being called a ‘banner’, their slang for a ban, a female garda. Grant didn’t seem to mind, though.
‘Thought you said you were working Sunday?’ Crowe asked, deciding to ignore the remark.
‘I was, but did a swap. Doing a double today.’
Crowe looked at her and wished she could be as carefree as Grant.
‘You know what?’ Crowe said, ‘you were born under a lucky star.’
Grant smiled and faked a smug nod of the head.
‘Peters and I are going on patrol now,’ she said, ‘so I might give you a wave when I cruise past as you hang out with the scrotes.’
‘I’m beginning to dislike you,’ Crowe replied. ‘Enjoy the weekend. Easy on the sex, drugs and rock ’n’ roll.’
That attracted loud hoots from the lads.
‘What you mean rock ’n’ roll?’ Grant shouted, to cheers and whistles.
Grant opened her window and crooned quietly as the warm wind caressed her face.
‘Who’s playing anyway?’ Peters asked.
Even with her eyes closed she knew he was eyeing her body up and down.
‘Ane Brun, Lisa Hannigan, Agnes Obel –’
‘Who the fuck?’
Grant opened her eyes at the sound of a car screeching hard in front of them.
‘Fucking hell,’ Peters said, leaning forward.
A BMW swung across the junction from the bridge, well after the lights had gone red.
‘We could let it slide,’ Grant said to Peters, ‘and just cruise around.’
Peters sped towards the BMW and gave the siren a couple of whirls. No response. He flashed the lights. Eventually the driver began to slow down and pulled in at the entrance to a disused factory.
‘What is this festival anyway, some lesbian gathering?’ Peters said, stopping and turning to Grant. But she was already half way out, the door clunking behind her.
‘Shop, what the fuck are ya doing?’ Maggot roared, almost jumping into the front seat. ‘Don’t fucking pull over.’
‘What do ya want me to do?’ Shop shouted back, glancing at Jobs next to him.
‘Ya tore through the fucking lights back there, ya dope,’ Jobs said. ‘I told ya to take it handy.’
‘We get searched we’re fucked,’ Maggot said, leaning forward.
‘Youse want me to take off?’ Shop said. ‘Then we’ll definitely get done.’
‘They saw us breaking a red,’ Jobs said, holding his hand out to calm things. ‘That’s all. They’ll give us a telling-off or slap us with a fine.’ He turned to Maggot. ‘They won’t search, unless we give them a reason to fucking search.’
‘I’m already facing a gun charge,’ Maggot shouted. ‘I’ll get the ten year if caught again.’
‘No ya won’t, yer a juvenile. Now, keep yer cool,’ Jobs said. ‘Say . . . fucking . . . nothing, right? Leave the talking to me.’
‘There’s some blonde bitch walking towards us,’ Shop said looking at his side mirror, as he kept the car in gear.
Jobs typed a text and sent it to the number Ghost gave him. Maggot pulled his hoodie up.
Jig wheelied down the path, enjoying the breeze off the canal running up the arms of his top. Bowie bounded beside him.
He had been out of his house all day, ever since he woke up screaming, from all the images, of red flames, of that horse screeching and Maggot laughing.
There was still a stink of petrol and burning stuck inside his nostrils even though he threw loads of water up them.
He slammed the front wheel of his bike down when he saw Taylor walking towards him with her dogs. She was with her big sister Megan.
‘Hiya, Jig,’ Taylor said, pulling the lead on one of the dogs as Bowie went over for a sniff.
‘Hey, Tay. Story?’
‘We have to get back home,’ Megan said, pulling Taylor along.
Jig knew her sister didn’t like him. She had that look on her face. He was used to it.
‘How old are them dogs now?’ Jig asked.
‘Nibs here,’ Taylor said, pulling the lead on a Jack Russell, ‘is thirteen months. Joxer the boxer,’ she laughed, ‘is two years old and the cocker, Diana, is six.’
‘She’s a year older than Bowie,’ Jig said.
‘Bowie is such a deadly dog,’ she said. ‘Sharon wants him ya know.’
‘Well, she not getting him,’ Jig snapped, but warmed at the thought of him and Sharon hanging out with Bowie.
‘Come on,’ Megan said. ‘We told Ma we’d be back in half an hour.’
‘Hold on,’ Jig said. ‘I’ll head back with youse.’
Grant was still smiling at Peters’ lesbian remark as she approached the car. The Luas cables near the canal jangled with a passing tram. Everything looked so good in the sun, she thought. If it held for the weekend, she’d be able to wear that new summer dress she got.
She shook off a little shower of white cherry blossoms from an overhanging tree as she approached the BMW. She pulled her anti-stab vest down on her short-sleeved uniform top and glanced in the back window. There was a young fella with a hoodie in the rear. She slowly walked up to the driver’s side and rapped on the window. The window zoomed down.
‘Story, garda?’ the driver said, a bit forced it seemed to her.
‘Story is you breaking a red at the bridge and taking the junction at speed.’
‘Ah, garda, it was yellow as we were going through it,’ came another voice.
She looked in at the front seat passenger. A fella with a cap on. Must be their spokesman, she thought. She noticed Peters walking around casually to the front of the car, his hands buried in his pockets, studying the disks on the dashboard. He made a point of taking out his notebook.
‘So?’ Grant said, speaking to the driver. ‘What’s the rush?’
The spokesman answered. ‘Just want to park old Betsy here and get a few cans and kick back in the garden. Want to make the most of the day, before the fucking sun goes in. Ya know what I mean? Yer welcome to join us, if ya want?’
Cool customer, Grant thought. Probably why he was doing the talking and not the mute lump driving. She looked at him again; he looked like he was holding in a shit.
‘You okay?’ she said to him.
‘Grand, yeah. No problem. Have to get a car with some AC though for the summer. Fucking boiler this thing.’ He managed to smile at Grant, but his face glistened with sweat.
She turned her attention to the hoodie in the back.
‘And what’s the story with you?’
No reply.
Grant took off her shades and studied him.
‘It raining in there?’
‘He’s not feeling well,’ the spokesman said. ‘And he’s short on charm.’
Grant smiled. She kept her eyes on the hoodie. She had planned to just give them a telling-off, being in good mood and over half way through her second shift. She wanted an easy end to the day. But something about the situation unsettled her. She turned to the driver again.
‘Why don’t you knock off the engine there?’
‘Back off, bitch.’
Grant turned to the hoodie, and saw a Glock pointing at her. As he shouted, the engine shut down, but it was still in gear. The car jumped forward. One shot went off.
Grant felt a fire on the side of her cheek. She saw blood spurt onto the driver’s face. She staggered and banged onto the ground. The car shunted back, then forward, catching Peters on the bonnet, smacking him hard against a metal pole. The car reversed towards her, and she saw no more.
‘Christ, get out of here,’ Jobs roared, slamming the dashboard. ‘Out!’
Shop careered onto the road, struggling to control the car. He glanced at the side mirror and saw the legs of the female garda splayed on the ground. He turned away before he could see any more. Her blood was on his face. He could feel it. The fucking enormity of what he had done was hitting him like a bat.
‘Ya total cunt,’ he roared at Maggot, reaching round to box him.
‘Eyes on the fucking road,’ Jobs shouted, pulling Shop’s arm back.
Jobs’ phone beeped. He read the text.
‘Right. Here we go. Rear of shops on Philip Road.’
Jig ducked at the loud clap. He fell sideways off the bike, hit his head off the edge of the path and splashed into the canal. Water poured into his ears and his eyes. The weight of his clothes dragged him flat to the bottom of the canal. He could hear warbled noises and screams above. He saw someone in pink, Megan it was, shouting on the path, but the sound was all worbly. He pushed himself up and spat out water. Megan was jumping, shaking her hands and her arms wildly. Her pink top was sprayed with red dots. The dogs spun and barked. There was a body on the path. From the school uniform he knew it was Taylor. He roared when he saw her face.
Shay jumped when he heard the loud crack. It came from further down the canal. A fucking gunshot, he told himself, running towards the sound. A car was tearing up the road towards him, screeching heavily. It was a BMW 3 series, 95 reg. There were three men inside, but he couldn’t make out who they were. But there was something about the guy in the back, or the hoodie he was wearing, that seemed familiar.
Terrible screams splintered the air. There were people on the path ahead, moving in different directions. He made out a girl in a pink tracksuit jumping up and down screeching, her hands and arms flailing as she turned in circles, roaring, ‘Ma, Ma.’
Dogs jumped and barked around her. A mother with a buggy was running towards them from the other side. There were some men across the road, where Shay could make out two other bodies, uniform gardaí, one with a massive injury.
Jig was standing in the canal, transfixed by the slumped body.
‘Have you got a phone?’ Shay shouted to the woman with the buggy. ‘Ring 999. Police and ambulance.’
Shay moved to hold the roaring girl, but she pushed him away. A Jack Russell was licking the face of a girl on the ground. He stepped around, to see her face, unable to avert his eyes. The bottom half of the girl’s face was gone. What was left was a mound of twisted bone.
Jig stood trembling in the water and hadn’t noticed Shay yet.
‘Jig, you okay?’ Shay shouted. ‘Jig?’
The boy didn’t respond, motionless where he stood in the canal, his eyes stuck on the girl.
Shay heaved Jig out and pulled him onto the path. He turned Jig’s face away from the girl.
He had to adjust his hold as Jig collapsed into his arms.