Marnie Coogan strolled along Main Street, her shopping trolley loaded down with groceries from her weekly shopping excursion. She mentally checked off the stops made, and those still to go, as she meandered past the stores of Bray’s high street. She’d picked up some lovely cuts of meat from the butcher’s shop, fresh vegetables from the greengrocer, a sharp cheddar from the supermarket and Sam’s prescription for his lumbago from the chemist. All now safely tucked away inside her trolley.
Shadows lengthened across the two-lane thoroughfare as the sun dipped below the tops of the buildings, plunging the east side of Main Street into near darkness. Marnie stepped into the last of the sun’s rays jagging between the row of shops separated by Davitt Road and paused to soak in their last ounces of warmth. She smiled realising a week from now she’d be enjoying a far warmer version of this same sun from a vastly different locale. Upon opening her eyes, Marnie noticed Holland’s on the other side of the road. An idea sprang to mind to pick up a nice bottle of wine for dinner to surprise Sam. Marnie shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand as she pushed her trolley across Main Street and pondered if she should go with a dry white or a bold red.
Later, eyewitnesses swore she never stood a chance. As Marnie stepped out from between two parked cars, the driver of the white transit van striking her never even so much as touched their brakes.
Marnie’s body was thrown 30 metres farther down Main Street from the force of the collision. If she wasn’t already dead from the initial impact, she surely was by the time the van ran over her a second time as it continued to accelerate through town.
Reports regarding the description of the driver varied wildly; though all agreed he was male. Most described him as dark-skinned and wearing a cap and sunglasses. Some thought he looked Asian and wore a turban. Mrs MacInnes remained convinced it was her next-door neighbour with whom she’d fought a long-running battle over the incessant barking of his small terrier. Also, little information was forthcoming regarding the van. It bore no exterior advertising or distinguishing features, nor did anyone recall seeing license plates.
At the home of Sam and Marnie Coogan, Sam sat at the small kitchen table overlooking their petite backyard waiting for Marnie’s return from the shops.
He’d received news earlier in the day, though not from his normal contact, his services were no longer needed for the following week’s bank heist. Sam knew better than to ask questions, and more importantly, knew to keep his mouth shut.
Forever and ever amen.
Sam sipped his Harp Lager from the bottle, as he distractedly peeled the label. He wondered how Marnie would take the news. She initially wasn’t thrilled with him working for his old mates again but thought with time – more than a year having passed since the previous job – she’d softened and was, in a small way, looking forward to spending the meagre cut he received. He knew she looked forward to visiting Rome again, too.
A knock at the front door dragged him back to the here and now.
Sam rose from the kitchen chair and made his way down the hallway to the front door. As he approached, he could see through the door’s bevelled glass two shapes on the front stoop.
When he opened the door to the sight of two Gardaí officers his blood ran cold. When they asked to come inside, he complied. When they asked if he’d like to sit down, he wondered why. When they told him of the accident, his mind spun and raced but finally settled on the obvious conclusion. Sam hated coincidences. Coincidences, if you failed to pay attention, got you killed.
Sam answered the officer’s few brief questions in a mind-numbing haze. The emotions of losing his wife of 28 years battled for space in his mind with the palpable fear that her death was not an accident but a message. He needed time alone to sort through the rubble and discover why. He also needed the two Gardaí officers out of his house. And, as much as it pained him, grieving for his Marnie would need to be put on hold for the time being.
A few moments later he walked the Gardaí officers back to the door, thanked them for their time, then closed and locked the door before they’d reached the front gate.
The Gardaí officers thought his behaviour strange but knew each person deals with grief in different ways.
Sam slumped onto the threadbare couch in the front room. It still bore the stains and tears from the mutt they’d adopted many years before. The mutt was long gone, the ruined couch the only evidence it ever existed. Marnie was determined to replace it with one made from a lovely Italian leather with his proceeds from the next job.
He stared in the direction of the television mounted on the far wall. His eyes focused on everything, yet nothing. By his arm, on the end-table, a picture frame held a photo of him and Marnie at a small café in Rome. Sam with his arm draped around Marnie’s shoulders; she was smiling, he making a face at the young waitress taking the photo.
Sam went over the instructions he’d received and knew he’d not made a mistake. He was a professional, he knew better. Slip-ups also got you killed.
But if a mistake was made, why Marnie and not him?
He dropped the frame to the floor and buried his face in his hands. His train of thought leading him to a dark place and darker times. Where battle lines were drawn and no quarter was asked for, or given. And where death sentences were meted out, from friend or foe, for the slightest of mistakes.
The first gut-wrenching sob emptied his lungs and left him gasping for breath. The tears which followed stung his eyes, leaked through his fingers and pooled on the sitting room’s wooden floor.