Crowe dumped her bag on the counter. She clipped off her holster and placed it down, exhaling relief and flexing her hip.
She opened the fridge and took out a can and cracked it open. As she savoured a gulp, her eyes rested on a post-it she’d stuck on the fridge door days ago, reminding Tom to buy some fruit.
Where the fuck was he anyway, she wondered.
On Halloween night? He’s hardly out trick-or-treating.
She opened her bag and took out her phone, then grabbed the evening paper she had bought after seeing the headline.
Teen beaten to a pulp in drugs row, it said.
Though Micko Hynes wasn’t named, she knew it referred to him. The boy ran one of the canal crews. She had gone down to the parents’ place in St Frances flats, but was told to fuck off and had the door slammed in her face.
The teenager had his jaw bone and nose broken, had lost sight in his left eye and had severe bruising all over his back. Any more belts to his head, the doctors had told her, he would have been left a vegetable. All at the end of a club. One, Crowe was sure, wielded by Cracko. But no one would talk. Same old story.
She took a long swig from her can.
Another of my investigations going nowhere. At this rate, I’ll be clocking up one of the worst detection rates in the station. Some chance of a promotion then.
What the beating was for, she didn’t know. The newspaper said it was a drugs row. But, that’s what they always said. No, there was something deeper going on with the Canal Gang in the last few weeks: the seizures, the attack on the addict and his girlfriend and now this beating. The gang was under pressure, for sure. But why? And was it connected to this republican threat Lynn was on about?
Tom intruded on her thinking again. She picked up her phone and rang his number. A faint noise went off from down the hall. It seemed to be coming from their bedroom. Maybe he had dozed off, she thought as she headed to the room. Her spirits lifted.
But there was no Tom. Just the screen of his phone lit up on the bed.
Crowe sat down in the gloom and picked the phone up. She took a long drink, as she deliberated. With only the slightest trace of guilt, she began scrolling through his texts. She didn’t want to find anything. But, at the same time, part of her did. It would confirm what she suspected. But she found it hard to focus on the names and numbers. She was just too tired.
She tapped in 171 and hit dial.
‘You have no new messages. You have one old message. To hear the message . . .’
Crowe hit six. There was a woman’s voice. Crowe tugged at the collar of her shirt. The woman spoke in whispered, broken words. She turned up the volume.
‘I know you told me not to ring you on your phone because she might be there.’
Crowe felt as if a switch inside her had been flicked.
‘I know, but I want your cock.’
Crowe’s arms and legs started to shake. The can slipped from her hand. Foaming liquid spilled out.
‘I’ve put on white gym pants. You’ll like them. They’re really tight and curve around my big juicy ass.’
The voice was breathing into the phone. Crowe tried to pull the phone away, but it was stuck to her sweaty palm. Her mind was screaming. Her heart banged, but she couldn’t stop listening.
‘My top is cut really low. And I’m wearing six-inch heels.’
This could not be happening.
The bastard. How could he?
‘I’ll suck your cock, lick it nice and slow. Hmm. Up and down. Kiss it and lick it.’
Crowe dropped the phone. She felt sick. The wall swayed in front of her. She struggled to catch a breath.
She stumbled and opened the window, closing her eyes to the blast of cold against her cheeks. Faint music wafted from an apartment below. Someone plucking a guitar. A soft male voice. The song sounded familiar. Lou Reed. ‘Perfect Day.’ Crowe’s eyes welled up. She clenched her teeth.
I am not going to stand for this.
She made for the door, but she couldn’t help but look at the mobile. The screen glowed. The call was still going. She could still hear the whore. She kneeled down and held the phone to her ear.
‘Nothing is off limits. Nothing. I know what you want to do to me. She won’t let you do it to her, but I will . . .’
Crowe flung the phone away, smacking it against the wall, and screamed down at the carpet.
‘You fucking bastard, you complete fucking bastard!’
She sniffed the tears away and wiped her cheeks.
I am not going to break down here in the bedroom for him to find me, a blubbering, pathetic wreck.
She pushed for the bathroom, though it felt like a boulder was strapped to her body.