The Bloomsday Dead

12: ITHACA (ISLANDMAGEE-JUNE 16, MIDNIGHT)

Wild horizon. Black sea. Prisoner path to the trapdoor floor. A banshee wind. The storm throwing water up the cliff. Thick clouds concealing the full moon and innumerable stars. Arctic waves. Heavy weather. The cliffs the anvil, the waves the hammer.

It had been raining all day on the high bog. Slurry and muck had sluiced down from the lighthouse hill and seaweed and kelp had been cast up from the lough.

The way was treacherous, and it wasn’t helped by a murderous gale escaped from its holding cell near the pole.

It was midnight.

Somewhere it’s always midnight.

The now distilled to basics: Cold. Pain. Fear.

Darkness, except in the eastern sky, where those pinpricks of lights were the meteors of the June Lyrids.

I was poised at the very edge of Ulster, the dominating feature no longer earth or grass but rather the jet-colored vacuum that was the Irish Sea. And here, in the cauldron, at the meeting point of island and ocean, all land seemed impermanent, fragile, existing on a knife edge.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I muttered as I slipped and nearly went down onto the rocks.

A big breaker could carry me out into Belfast Lough and the Atlantic. I’m no swimmer, but the cold would stop my heart in any case.

I took a second to steady myself. Thunder rumbling over from Scotland. Foghorns, bell buoys. A canopy of porter-colored clouds. The pistol sweetening in my sweat.

The front not even an orchestra tuning, but rather one loud, continuous, shrieking note.

Have to go carefully. Unlikely that they would be here already. But you never knew. I checked my watch, tapped it, something wrong. I examined it but it had stopped at eleven o’clock. I shook it, goaded it, but the rain had finally spoiled the action. I’d bought it for a half a sol in a market in Lima, so I couldn’t really complain.

Sheep loomed out of the murk in front of me, coming down from one of the upper fields. Bedraggled, waterlogged. Even an older, more experienced ewe drenched with muck, staring at me with desperation in her dead eyes.

“Go on, scoot,” I told her, and she and the other sheep scrambled away into the heather. I stopped for a second.

Unnerved.

I found the path again. A concrete-and-gravel job. “The path to the future,” I muttered. Soaked, slippery, unseen-the adjectives working for both literal and metaphoric journey.

I followed it farther around to Black Head. Slider had been right. It split here. The upper path wound up to the lighthouse at the top of the cliff, the lower made its way down almost to the water.

“This way,” I said to myself, and found my place along the lower route. The direction of the cave.

I hoped my information was correct. But it had to be. I had frightened the truth out of that son of a bitch. And if he was lying, if he had pulled this wee hidey-hole out of his arse, he was a more impressive individual than I gave him credit for.

The path worked down to the bottom of the cliff. Spray hitting me every time a wave broke.

Lightning had transformed the sea between Ireland and Scotland into a landscape spectral and fantastic. Splintered light showing the hills in Galloway and their mirrors in the Glens of Antrim. And for a moment, if you were so inclined, you could almost imagine that the boiling waters between Ireland and Britain were, in fact, a silent valley of writhing souls in Hades.

I shivered.

The wind howling up to thirty or forty miles an hour now, ringing in my ears. I cursed, but I couldn’t hear my own voice.

I walked a little farther, turned a corner, looked up, the lighthouse suddenly seventy-five feet above on the clifftop. A spectacular sight. The large white structure silhouetted against the storm clouds and the big mirrored bulb radiating powerful beams across the water-visible from Scotland and the Isle of Man. I stood transfixed. I had never seen anything like it. Great sheets of light above me, rotating and hyp-notic. Millions of candlepower warning ships about the coast of Ireland from as far away as the Earth’s curve would allow.

And all of it coming together.

Like I knew it would.

The crescendo.

The climax.

The lighthouse. The lightning. The storm. The night. The frothing sea and rain. It was a coda from Götterdämmerung and enough to make you scrap your disbelief in the sympathetic fallacy.

“A hell of a night,” I said to no one.

I walked farther along the lower path. The tide was high and the sea was only a few vertical feet beneath me. And, Jesus, of all places to meet, why this one? I was hard pressed to think of a more desolate spot in the whole of Ireland. You certainly couldn’t make a quick getaway from here and you couldn’t count the money and you couldn’t wait in comfort. The only advantage would be the certitude with which you could verify Bridget’s adherence to the plans. You’d see her coming from a mile off. She’d have to be alone. No cops and no goons could possibly follow her without being seen. If she approached from the south, from the direction I was taking, you’d come from the north, over the fields. You’d do the exchange at the cave and both parties would go home the way they came.

I turned another corner as a deck of cold water smashed into the bottom of the cliff, the initial break missing me but the bounce off the cliff catching me full on the back.

Bugger.

The path had a safety rail here now. But I wasn’t going near it. Rusted and warped by wind, rain, and spray, it didn’t look at all safe. I hoped Bridget wouldn’t put her trust in it. Christ, it would give and she’d be in the Atlantic, doomed, drowned, dead.

I shook my head.

There it was again.

A contradiction of emotions. For wouldn’t that be in my best interests, if Bridget did somehow end up in the sea? Wouldn’t things be much easier for me if Bridget was erased from my life forever? No more vendetta, no more blood feud? No more waking in the middle of night, my heart pounding, reaching for the Glock under my pillow?

A dead Bridget would be my chance for a normal existence. The first chance in twelve years.

I turned the final corner and the sound of the sea changed. A hollow, booming noise echoing off the walls. A black void in the cliff face.

I took out my revolver.

This was the cave. The Witches’ Cave. The name an unwelcome dose of melodrama in a spot that was bloody tight enough.

Why hadn’t I thought to bring a flashlight? I walked over the slime-covered rocks into the cave mouth. I clutched the revolver. Maybe the girl was here already. Maybe she was tied up and I’d rescue her and save the day and Bridget’s eternal love would shine down from on high. Maybe all would be forgiven and I’d live happily ever after.

Aye.

I crouched and hunched farther into the pristine darkness. The cave went back a good bit into the cliff, but sea spray could still make it this far and on the seventh wave it smacked into the walls and drenched me again. I crouched lower and moved forward a little. How deep did this bastard go?

I stooped almost horizontal and inched ahead even more slowly. I was being careful, but despite my caution I still managed to slip on the rocks and cut myself badly on the left hand. Fortunately, the revolver was in my right, but I didn’t want to lose it now, so I put it back in my jacket pocket.

I kept still for a moment and got on my haunches.

My eyes adjusted, and from the ambient light and odd lightning flash, I could see for certain that the cave was empty. No girl, no kid-napper, no Bridget.

Garbage, seaweed, beer cans, sodden paper, some luminous graffiti but nothing that looked as if anyone had even been here recently.

Shit. Had Slider stroked me after all? This was no place for an exchange. Jesus, this was no place at all.

“Is there anybody here?” I called out.

Not a sound. Not even a goddamn echo.

I looked at my watch. 11:00, it said. Oh, yeah. Broken. But it was bound to be after midnight now. Bridget would be on the move. Juking from phone box to phone box and car to car. Probably heading for Dublin or Donegal or the hill of Tara. Anywhere but here. What a waste of time.

“Ya did it to me, Slider. Conned me. Stroked me,” I said.

Well, I was committed to this place now in any case. The only course would be to wait. If they didn’t show up at midnight, I’d have no option but to head for the nearest ferry port or air terminal. Get out of Ireland as soon as possible. Bob’s brother had been very clear. If Bridget gets the girl or the girl dies, all bets are off. He and the whole organization would be coming to kill me and with the full wrath of Bridget and her men I wouldn’t last a day in this country.

I shivered and sat down on a rock. I could have done with a cigarette. A nice wee ciggy to warm me up. I tapped my watch and wound it, listened, took it off, and threw it behind me into the stinking, moving pile of flotsam and jetsam.

Seawater was coming in along the bottom of the cave now. Maybe McFerrin was even smarter than I thought. He tells me about this cave in the middle of bloody nowhere. He figures I’ll go wait inside it like a complete eejit. He knows that at high tide the cave is completely submerged and by the time I realize this, I’ll be goddamn drowned.

Great.

Nice plan. I suppose you thought you’d be waiting for me in hell with a big grin on your face. That right, Slider? I looked at the water level. Was it rising? I tried to see if there were high-tide marks on the walls, but you couldn’t tell.

Sometimes it was the wrong thing to kill a man. Maybe I should have brought the son of a bitch with me. Someone to talk to while we waited. And then I could have popped him. Then again, no. Too many difficulties.

The water was licking around my boots.

Jesus Christ. Well, I’d shoot myself before I let the sea drown me. Awful way to go. Especially on a night like this.

But wait a minute.

McFerrin wasn’t that clever. And not with a gun pointed at his head. And offhand, who would even know the high-tide tables except fishermen and lobstermen?

“Nah, you couldn’t have thought of a plan like that, could you, mate?” I said to the walls. McFerrin’s hell-bound grin faded, like the cat from the book.

But where the hell was everybody? I suddenly remembered there was a clock on my cell phone. I took it out, hit the back light. 4:59, it said. It was a second-rate phone and still locked in on Peru time.

And, oh boy, South America, that seemed like a million miles away. The mere thought of the journey and all that had happened in between made me yawn. God Almighty, I hadn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in the last two days. As soon as the adrenaline stopped pumping, I’d be in for a serious crash.

I looked at the phone. Worked out the time zones. Aye. Nearly twelve o’clock British Summer Time. I blinked down the fuzziness in my head, the flashes before my eyes, dialed Bridget’s number and got no answer. Of course, they told her to leave her phone.

I pulled out a sodden piece of paper and dialed the other number. Earlier on top of the mountain, I couldn’t get a signal, but now, of course, despite being a troglodyte deep within a cave system, the phone worked just fine.

Moran answered.

“Yeah?”

“It’s Forsythe.”

“What do you want?”

“Did they call her?”

“Yeah, they did, gave her instructions; we were on her tail to the bridge but then we lost her.”

“You followed her?”

“Yeah, tried to.”

“What happened?”

“He had her drive down a road that we thought was a dead-end street. It wasn’t. It was a fake sign, so we waited at the end of the street for her to come out and of course she didn’t. We waited and waited and then we went down there and her car was empty and she was gone.”

“What do you think happened?”

“I think they had another car waiting down there. Norris thought he saw a Ford Escort drive off, but we had to hang back, so we couldn’t really tell,” Moran said bitterly.

“Was she in the Ford?” I asked.

“We couldn’t tell. Smart that they had her change vehicles in case we’d bugged her car. Which, of course, we had.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked.

“It means we’ve fucking lost her.”

“The cops lost her too?”

“Bridget told the cops not to tail her, she told me, too, but I couldn’t resist. In any case, we’re both out of the picture now. I’m sorry to say it, but she’s on her own.”

“Shite.”

“What have you come up with?” Moran asked.

“I might have a good lead.”

“Where are you?”

“Islandmagee.”

“Where the fuck is that?”

“North of Belfast, it’s a peninsula, not an island but-”

“You’re in County Antrim?” Moran asked, surprised.

“That’s right.”

“She went over the Lagan Bridge into County Down. We lost her over there. You’re not even in the right fucking county.”

Dead air. We both knew what it meant.

“It looks like my informant lied to me,” I said with resignation.

“Well, Forsythe, you can’t say you haven’t had fair warning.”

“I know.”

“Goodbye.”

Click and the dial tone.

I put my head in my hands. Laughed. Well, he was right about one thing, I’d been warned. Couldn’t fault him on that score. And on the surface he seemed like a decent enough bloke. Still, it bugged me. It was amazing that he’d let her go on alone. I would never have done that, no matter what the kidnappers said. Maybe he was half hoping it would all fuck up and Bridget would take a hit. This whole thing had already made her look weak. If Siobhan died or Bridget got hurt, perhaps it would be Moran’s turn to step up to the plate. He was no instigator. He didn’t have the bottle for that. But he’d certainly be there to pick up the pieces. Step into her shoes. First order of business, kill me.

The time on the phone said five o’clock now.

Midnight in the Emerald Isle. The time for the exchange. And here I was in a deserted cave, miles from the action, miles from anywhere.

At least I’d been vague. I’d told Moran I was on Islandmagee, but that’s all I’d told him. He’d be hard pressed to find me. The morning papers would let me know what happened with Bridget and her daughter, and I’d take a ferry to Scotland and maybe a flight from Glasgow to New York. Dan would let me back in the WPP. He was a good guy too. They were all goddamn good guys.

I was tired.

Stupid.

Wet.

I stood up. Stretched. At least you couldn’t say I hadn’t given it my best shot. One bloody Bloomsday I wouldn’t bloody forget in a hurry.

I walked back to the cave mouth.

And then I heard it.

A voice.

No.

Voices.

Closer.

I got down.

“She’s late.”

“Aye, well, she’ll be coming.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“She will.”

Something familiar about that second voice. It was barely more than a croak, it sounded like someone who had terminal throat cancer or had just sung a marathon rock show or had worked in a powdered- glass factory for fifty years. I knew no one with a voice like that. And yet there was something in it that I did know. A shiver went down my spine. I couldn’t place it, but I felt it, and it wasn’t right. No. It was all fucking wrong.

I lay down on the cave floor, nudged myself forward, crawling over the barnacle-covered rocks and the retreating tide.

There were four figures in the mouth sheltering from the rain. They’d only just arrived. Three men and a girl. The girl had a hood up over most of her head, but you could tell it was her. Siobhan. Bridget’s girl. She was tiny. Wearing blue jeans and a clear plastic coat.

She turned her head slightly. Red golden hair dangling over wet cheeks. But the Polaroid I had didn’t do her justice. Her face had an odd, faraway loveliness-stolen child, elf child, but more than that. Yes. In a box somewhere I’ve got a sepia picture of my grandmother at a similar age. The resemblance was uncanny. Unmistakable, in fact.

And then I knew the whole story.

And then I knew the stakes were much higher than before.

The three men were in black Bear jackets, carrying flashlights and huge Pecheneg machine guns.

“Ten million, boss, be a nice wee bonus,” one of them said.

“This isn’t about the money,” the boss croaked.

He could barely speak at all, you could tell that every word was painful and his accent was all over the place. Sometimes it sounded Spanish, sometimes American, sometimes Irish. But I recognized a part of it. I’d talked to this man before. Years ago. I knew him. If only I could- “What about the wean?” one of the men asked.

“You know fucking full well. You know what we have to fucking do. Don’t mention it again,” the boss said ominously.

The girl didn’t move. Didn’t react. What had they done to her?

“Where’s your fags?” the boss asked.

They handed him a cigarette. He lit it and smoked it. So if the cancer theory was correct, it certainly wasn’t deterring the bastard.

“How long do we wait here?” an underling asked.

“Go on out and check. Harry should be seeing her real soon,” the boss said.

One of the men put his hood up and stepped outside the cave.

The boss drew in the tobacco smoke with relish. A cheap brand, an American brand, I could smell it from here. What did that tell me? It told me something. I recognized his tobacco.

A walkie-talkie crackled.

“Aye?” the boss said.

“She’s coming.”

The man outside came running back. He passed across a pair of binoculars with a night scope on them. The boss took them greedily.

“I heard Harry on the walkie-talkie and I seen her, too, she’s on her own,” the man said.

The boss stood. He limped over to Siobhan.

“Your ma is fucking coming for ya, love,” he said, and poked at the girl.

Siobhan whimpered and retreated back into the wall. Her hands were tied in front of her, but if anything, she had underreacted to the poke. They’d obviously done something to her. McFerrin had said something about drugs.

“She’s alone, nobody for fucking miles,” the other man said, coming in from outside, brandishing the binoculars in triumph.

“Call Harry up at the lighthouse and get him to double-check for anybody following her or fucking boats or helicopters or anything,” the boss said, and again I noticed that agony with his speech, every word difficult, painful. Did I know any chain-smokers? Or someone scheduled for a larynx removal?

One of the men picked up the walkie-talkie, spoke, got his answer, turned to the boss. He was excited.

“Dave says the coast is clear. She’s coming alone and he says she’s definitely carrying a briefcase.”

“The money,” the other goon said happily, forgetting the boss’s admonition that this wasn’t about the cash. Which made me think, well, if not dough, what was it about?

The boss threw away one fag and lit another. The smoke drifted back, and now I recognized it. Tareyton. Only one person I ever knew smoked Tareyton, and he was dead.

“Game faces on,” the boss said, and the two others took off their coats. Put on black baseball caps. But with their coats off and hoods down I could see them quite clearly in the lightning flashes. I didn’t recognize either of them. Just a couple of low-level gangsters, of the type you’d find in any bar in Belfast or Derry or Dublin.

The boss took off his coat and the lightning flashed and I saw his horribly disfigured face.

I recognized him instantly.

And of course I knew immediately what this whole thing was about.

Slider hadn’t misspoken. He was going to kill Bridget and he was going to kill the girl and he was going to take the money in compensation for what Darkey White had done to him all those terrible years ago.

For the man standing there with the Pecheneg and the scarred throat and mangled mouth and patchy red hair and cadaverous cheeks was none other than my old long-deceased mate Scotchy Finn.

The last time I had been with Scotchy he was on the razor-wire perimeter fence of the prison in Valladolid, Mexico. Bridget’s fiancé, Darkey White, had set us up on a drugs buy so that the whole crew, but especially me, would get arrested and I’d be bunged inside some Mexican hellhole in order that he and Bridget could marry and Bridget would forget me forever. But Scotchy was a resourceful wee fuck. A nasty annoying pain in the ass but a resourceful wee fuck nonethe-less. He had broken us out of the nick and he’d gotten as far as the razor wire before an M16 rifle round had hit him in the back. He’d fallen onto a big loop of razor wire and from my angle the wire had nearly decapitated him. It had certainly killed him. Even if the M16 bullet hadn’t topped him, there was no way anybody could have survived a fall like that onto a loop of sharp tensile steel.

But let’s say, by some fucking miracle, you had survived and your head wasn’t taken clean off, well, then you’d die anyway when the prison guards ripped you down. They wouldn’t be careful about it. Why would they? They’d rip you down and that would tear you up and kill you.

But for the sake of argument, let’s imagine that Mother Teresa and the pope and Saint Nicholas of Myra (the patron saint of thieves) are, at that precise moment, thinking about the destiny of redheaded fuckup scumbags from Crossmaglen and they intervene personally with the Angel of Death to save you on the wire. So you live through that. But how in the name of God and all that’s holy do you survive the medical treatment that you’ll get in a Mexican prison hospital, especially when the guards were less than inclined to save our old pal Andy when he got near beaten to death?

They wouldn’t have surgeons that could save your life.

They wouldn’t give you a blood transfusion, and if they did, it would probably be the wrong blood type or contaminated with the AIDS virus.

Nah. To survive the bullet, the wire, the ripping down, the Mexican hospital, you’d have to have ninety-nine lives, be born on Christmas, find a shamrock in your crib, and do Lourdes in advance for thirteen summers.

None of which Scotchy did. And he was an unlucky son of a bitch to begin with. Stupid, quick tempered, and a bad penny with a capital P. There is no way Scotchy could have survived what I saw happen to him.

Not a fucking chance.

And yet.

And yet.

Scarred, bent over, scorched, nasty looking.

The motherfucker himself.

Scotchy.

My old nemesis.

My old pal.

The way he stood, the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he smoked.

Oh my God.

It is definitely him.

I want to get up and run over and hug the dumbass bastard. I want to shake him by the hand. Scotchy, oh my God.

I killed Sunshine for you. I killed Bob for you. I killed Darkey White for you. All for you, mate. Because you made me promise. And now what?

Now I want your blessing.

I want to kneel down before you and I want you to put your bony hand on my head and say “You done good, son. You done good.”

I need that, Scotchy.

I need to know that I did the right thing. That you approve. And I want to look you in the eye, talk to you, have a pint. I want to get in a fight with you and make up and have more pints and have you fucking steal from my wallet while I go to the bathroom.

I want to see your ugly fangs break into a grin.

I want you to call me Bruce.

Scotchy, I am so happy to see you.

My world overthrown.

You are my brother. You are the closest thing to flesh and blood I have in this world.

Well, second closest. (Tonight it was getting to be like the season finale of a Spanish soap opera.)

But, oh Scotchy, I want to go over and hug you and shake your hand.

I want to.

I need to.

But I don’t.

I sit there in the dark.

Like a rat.

Waiting.

Not the time. The time will come. But not now.

You’re going to kill her. You’re going to kill both of them. I know you, Scotchy. I know what you were capable of before. God knows what you can do now. After what you’ve been through.

And I have only a six-shot revolver.

And they have assault rifles.

And this is Scotchy fucking Finn, no mean hand in a gun battle. No mean hand.

The walkie-talkie crackles.

“She’s coming, she’s right on you,” Steve says.

“Ok, ya fucks, drop your cocks, grab your fucking guns, if wee Siobhan does anything stupid fucking shoot the bitch. I want my words with Bridget, but if there’s any fucking funny stuff, shoot her without my say-so. Safety fucking first, lads. Understood?”

The two men nod and I grin. Aye, that’s my Scotchy, no doubt about it.

His hair has been ripped out in chunks. There’s a massive scar across his throat and obviously his voice box has been badly damaged. His face has been pummeled, his nose repeatedly broken, and it looks like he’s lost an eye. I’ve seen a dozen better-looking corpses, and that’s just today.

But he’s alive.

He hadn’t been decapitated and he hadn’t died from blood loss and the Third World doctors had saved his fucking life. And then what?

What happened to you, Scotchy?

Ten years in some hellhole in Mexico. All the tortures of the world. But if nothing else, Scotchy is a wee ratfaced survivor. I know how he’d get through. Sell out his mates, his pals; he’d turn informer, dealer, pimp. He’d shank someone, kill his way out, lie his way out. And now this. Back to Ireland, rebuilding a life. Where would he go? Belfast? Dublin? South Armagh? He’d work his way up. Maybe he’d stay in Mexico until he had the dough and clout to come home.

Well, he’s got at least partway up the ladder. Those boys called him boss, didn’t they?

All this time hungering for revenge. I don’t have a monopoly on that. There’s enough out there for both of us. Hate has a big reservoir. He finds out that Bridget and Siobhan are in town and he grabs her wean. Where did he see her? Was he watching the hotel? How did he do it? How many men?

Certainly a good scheme.

A way to make his fortune and take revenge on Bridget at the same time. Kill two birds.

Literally.

Jesus, maybe he planned the whole thing from the start, years ago, back in Mexico, in the dog years of a jail cell, although maybe not. Scotchy’s an opportunist, not a planner. I like that about him. There’s a lot I like about him.

Scotchy…

One of the men lit a hurricane lamp. It was powerful and cast a good glow over the walls. I hugged the floor of the cave and slunk as far backward as I could.

Scotchy cocked his Pecheneg and stood. His mates tensed. They were both in their early twenties, kids. The type that Scotchy always liked to surround himself with, easily influenced, easily impressed.

“Marty, you go, meet her at the path. Check one final time she’s not being followed. I’m sure we would have fucking seen somebody by now, but you never know. Search her, search her fucking well, bring her in to see me. We’ll do this fast, but I want to have my fucking word,” Scotchy talking as fast as he could with his condition. You could tell that every time he spoke he was biting back pain. No, you could tell that he was in continuous pain, speaking just made it worse. Twelve years of that.

“Ok, boss,” Marty said and went outside.

“Cassidy, you stand way back there in the cave, like I say, any sudden move fucking shoot her, and don’t shoot me by mistake, you’ll regret it, I’m a hard fucking man to kill, easy man to piss off,” Scotchy said.

“Sure, boss.”

Cassidy made his way back toward me. If he turned around and had a good look, he was bound to see me hiding here against the wall. But Scotchy hadn’t ordered them to check out the cave first. I would have. I would have had a man here all fucking day. But Scotchy was Scotchy. Brilliant at some things, half-assed at others.

We waited. Not long.

Marty appeared with Bridget. He had stripped her of her coat. She was standing there in a white turtleneck and jeans. Her red hair matted, soaked, plastered against her face and neck.

“Siobhan,” she gasped as she saw her baby hooded and tied.

Siobhan didn’t say anything. She was breathing shallowly and they’d clearly doped her. Bridget dropped the briefcase and made a dash for the girl.

“Don’t fucking move, Bridget,” Scotchy said, pointing the big Russian machine gun at her.

“What have you done to her?” Bridget demanded.

“A wee bit of Valium, she’s fine. For now,” Scotchy said.

“You’ve got your money. Now let us go,” Bridget said.

Scotchy laughed. Bridget’s eyes narrowed. She looked at him in fury, but she was trying to conceal her fear. Her hands were trembling. She hid them behind her back.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” Scotchy said.

Bridget shook her head.

“Take a seat, Bridget. Something I have to tell you. Something we have to discuss,” Scotchy said.

“I want to see my daughter,” Bridget insisted.

Scotchy fired the Pecheneg into the ground, a short two-second burst, but the noise and ricochets were terrifying. Any of us could have caught a bullet in an enclosed space like this. Miracle that we didn’t. Bloody maniac.

“Take a fucking seat, bitch,” Scotchy screamed. Cassidy and Marty looked as shocked and as shit-scared as I felt.

Bridget sat down on a rock as close as she could to Siobhan.

“I’m going to speak and you are going to listen,” Scotchy began. “Every word is an effort. So every word is precious. I’ve had four operations on my throat in two years and what you hear now is the best they can come up with. The ten years I was in jail, I could barely grunt. You know what they called me? El Americano Quieto. It’s a joke, see. A famous book. You probably seen the fucking picture.”

“I don’t see what your problems have to do with me or my daughter. I’ve given you your money, count it and let us go and you can have all the surgeries you need,” Bridget said.

“Did I ask you to speak? Your job is to fucking listen, bitch. That’s all. You just fucking listen and you’ll understand. I want you to understand before I kill you. I want you to know what it’s been like. Darkey White, your beloved, sent us to Mexico, he left us there, the fucking deal went sour, and he left us there to fucking die. Only two of us didn’t die. Fucking young Michael Forsythe, he managed to get out. Aye, you remember him, don’t ya. I heard what he did. He killed Darkey and Sunshine and Big Bob. Proud of him for that. Fucking disappeared into the WPP after that. Some say he was a fucking quisling, ratting out the whole organization to save his hide. But I don’t blame him. He did right. Only thing, though, he didn’t finish the job.”

Bridget was stunned with recognition. Her hand went to her mouth. Her eyes widened, first in amazement and then horror.

“Scotchy, is it you? Is it really you?” she whispered.

Scotchy smiled.

“It’s me. Me llamo Señor Finn… what I mean is, you can call me Mr. Finn, the name Scotchy is only for mates,” Scotchy said.

“Everybody said you were dead. Even Michael said you were dead,” Bridget said, horrified.

“Oh aye, but it takes more than a few fucking dagos to kill oul Scotchy boy. Estoy vacunado against death.”

Scotchy shook his head.

“No more of that. Making me angry, Bridget, slipping back. But you’re right, everybody did think I was topped. Me and Bruce tried to break out, I didn’t make it. I was nearly killed dead, so I was. But somehow they fixed me up and after near a year in hospital they transferred me to a sweat-box jail in Baja. You know what it’s like there? Fucking desert. Hundred degrees on the chilly days. Hundred and thirty wasn’t so unusual. Nine years there until the amnesty under President Fox. I won’t even begin to describe the horrors I went through, love. Every day of my life. Dreaming of you and Darkey and Big Bob. Dreaming of the moment when I’d get to see you all again.”

Scotchy started to cough. Marty came over to help him. Scotchy waved him away.

Marty looked at the briefcase full of money.

Bridget looked at it too, in a different sort of way.

My heart skipped a beat.

Oh-ho, she had something up her sleeve.

Scotchy caught his breath, pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket, and drank from it. He continued with his diatribe.

“Aye, President Fox pardoned a couple of hundred of us foreigners. Fucking good man. And when I got out, I learned that Bruce had gone on a killing spree back in 1992. He had robbed me of some of it, but not all. Not my piece. Hadn’t done a thing to you, had he? Oh aye, and Darkey had a daughter, didn’t he? Well, well, well.”

“You better not have hurt her,” Bridget snarled.

“Not a pretty hair on her pretty head. Yet. Oh yeah. Coming to you, love. Fucking surprised when I heard Bridget was the boss now. Aye. Well, she inherits the empire as well as its fucking debts. And that’s why you’re here, love, to repay your debts.”

“Ten million will go a long way,” Bridget said, still not understanding what Scotchy meant to do. But I did. Bridget and the girl. The girl first to show Bridget the meaning of pain. Then her.

It was clever on Scotchy’s part, it would establish him as a bad lad, the one who topped Bridget and her wee girl. Nobody would fuck with him after that. And ten million quid. Nearly eighteen million dollars with the weak greenback. Scotchy could return to America and ride out any storm he wanted. Or stay here. Belfast was on the up and up. If there was prosperity he could move into drugs and protection. And if it went the other way… Maybe by the 2011 census, certainly in the five years after it, the Catholics would have a majority in Northern Ireland. And any fool could see what that would mean. A Catholic majority in Ulster would mean a vote for union with the south and a million Protestants, many of whom had served in the armed forces, would suddenly find themselves in a foreign country. Think Bosnia, Rwanda, Kosovo. Oh, for a player like Scotchy, the possibilities would be endless.

Kill Bridget, kill Siobhan, establish his kudos, rise, rise, rise.

He could go far, that boy, especially with a smart consigliere like me beside him. His old mate. He’d take me back. I know he would.

Reveal myself, hugs, tears, slaps on the back, and then ride with Scotchy into the good times. He’d provide protection from Moran, from the peelers, from everybody. He was destined for great things.

Aye, you could say that that was the right and only move. Just close your eyes, Michael. Stick your fingers in your ears. All be over in a moment. The smart play. Crouch down and let it happen.

But no.

Siobhan had changed everything. Even if she’d only been Darkey’s kid I wouldn’t have let him do it.

And certainly not after what I knew now.

“Well, it’s painful for me to talk. And it’s the end of my story, bitch. You’re going to pay without further fucking ado. Say goodbye to your wee girl,” Scotchy said and stood back from her. He pointed the machine gun at Siobhan.

“The money, you have to count the money,” Bridget said desperately.

“Fuck the money,” Scotchy said, raised the gun.

I stood.

“Scotchy,” I said.

Scotchy looked like he been electrocuted. He shook, froze, turned. His jaw opened. His good eye bulged in its socket. Cassidy almost shot me on the spot but reacted just in time.

“Bruce. You fucker,” Scotchy said and the delight on his face would have curdled milk from fifty paces.

He ran to the back of the cave and embraced me.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he screamed, literally jumping for joy.

“Scotchy, I-”

“Boys, boys, this is me old mate Bruce,” he said to the other two, who were looking at me with a mixture of suspicion, horror, and disbelief. This whole scene was tense enough already without some ghost from Scotchy’s past appearing like a magician at the back of cave. I mean, what the fuck else was back there? The Heavenly Choir, the FBI, the Irish Guards Pipe Band?

Cassidy kept one gun on me, Marty kept his on Bridget.

At least, it appeared that I was unarmed.

Scotchy grinned at me with false teeth, a pockmarked face, a reconstructed nose, a jaw that could never close properly, a white left eye.

“What the fuck are you doing here? You’re dead,” I said in amazement.

Scotchy smiled.

“How did you find this place?” he asked.

“I found your boy McFerrin. I asked him. He told me,” I said.

Scotchy laughed.

“Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, you have no fucking idea. You have no idea how badly I’ve been trying to get you. Fucking hell, Bruce. I have moved heaven and earth. And I even sent a couple of guys to Australia. You were in Australia for a while, right?”

“No, Scotchy, I was never in Australia. But what about you, how the fuck are you still alive? When did you get out?” I asked, slapping him on the back.

“Two years, Bruce. Two years.”

I hugged Scotchy and looked at Bridget behind him. I looked at her to get her attention. She saw my glance and it helped. She was a tiny bit less afraid, a wee bit reassured. I gave her the slightest inclination of my head, a hint to get as near to Siobhan as she possibly could. If bullets were going to fly, I needed them together and out of my kill box. I let go the hug and held Scotchy at arms’ length. I punched him on the shoulder. He was fighting it, but the tears were welling up.

“Scotchy, I saw you fall on the razor wire, it nearly took your fucking head right off,” I said.

“Aye,” Scotchy said and his scarred and hideous face broke into a leer. “I was lucky. More lucky than I deserved to be, and the fucking wogs, they did me right considering everything, the fuckers. Those fucking bastards.”

Scotchy sagged, his body almost tumbling into mine with the memory of it.

“It must have been terrible,” I said.

“Bruce, I’ll never tell you, we’ll chat about old times, but I’ll never talk about that with you because it’ll break your heart,” he said sadly.

I believed him. He wouldn’t tell me and wouldn’t blame me. He’d protect me from what I couldn’t know. He’d look after me.

Scotchy clipped me around the top of the head.

“I heard about you in Mexico, killed Darkey White,” he said, grinning.

“I finished it,” I said.

Scotchy shook his head. He wasn’t having that. He wanted his piece and he wasn’t going to be denied. It would be pointless trying to talk him out of it. But I had to try.

“You survived, Scotchy, you’re a tough son of a bitch, and now you’ve got some dough, a wee crew. It’s great,” I said.

He nodded, stretched, held his gun tight, turned around to look at Bridget.

“Bruce, wee bit of business to take care of, then we’ll talk,” he said.

“Aye, boss, we should head,” Marty said.

“Wait a minute. You said you were looking for me?” I asked.

“Aye,” Scotchy said.

“You didn’t send a couple of guys to Dublin to pick me up, by any chance?” I asked him.

“Fuck aye, Bruce, I’ve been desperate, you are my right-hand man missing these twelve fucking years. Tell ya, half the reason I snatched the bairn in Belfast was the fucking hope that Bridget would send for you. Who did she know that knew Belfast? I knew she could get a message to you through the FBI. Maybe she’d promise you immunity or a couple of million. Christ, it couldn’t have worked out better. Bridget and Siobhan, the money, and now you, Michael. It’s like fucking Christmas,” Scotchy said, laughing.

He leaned against an outcrop of rock.

“I think this is even better than the day I got out,” he whispered to me with an affectionate smile.

I looked at Bridget and she began slowly moving next to Siobhan.

“So you sent a couple of clowns to get me in Dublin?” I asked.

Scotchy laughed.

“Aye, I had a couple of blokes try and pick you up in Dub. Put a local crew on it. Said just keep an eye out at the airport, pass the word around. Had a wee crew at Belfast airport too. Told them both: bring him to me. Don’t hurt him, but make sure he bloody comes,” Scotchy said.

“They were too heavy, Scotchy,” I said.

“Aye, well, I allowed them a wee bit of leniency; I had to get you, Bruce, if you were coming, I couldn’t allow you to see Bridget, knowing your weakness and all,” he said, laughing.

“Aye, Scotch,” I said.

“’Course, forgot who I was dealing with, not bloody Bruce at all, Michael fucking Forsythe, the man who killed Darkey White,” he said with a laugh that became a cough. A whole series of long speeches for Scotchy. He was done in. His finger slipped off the safety on the Pecheneg and he leaned on me.

A big new shiny gun, the Pecheneg. The successor to the most successful rifle ever made-the AK-47. Anybody could fire an AK. We all knew its strengths and weaknesses. The AK was not a weapon of finesse. No sniper ever used an AK. You only have to look at that video of Osama bin Laden sighting his AK like it’s a.303 Lee Enfield to know that he’s a clueless rich boy. A good gun, though, reliable and easy to handle. The Pecheneg was the new Russian heavy machine gun. The Russians were touting it as an even better weapon. But there was a difference between the two guns. In an emergency you could shoot an AK from the hip. But the Pecheneg was much more powerful. You had to lift it up and aim it. And it would take a second for the lads to get the guns to their shoulders.

That one-second window was enough to give me the hint of a plan.

I’d pull out my pistol, I’d shoot Scotchy in the head. As he fell, I’d shoot Cassidy and after that-if all this has only taken that one second- I’d have at least a fifty-fifty chance of killing Marty before he managed to throw any fire near me.

“Scotchy, I am so happy to see you. I can’t believe you’re alive, ya big fucking girl, ya. I can’t believe it,” I said, and got ready.

“Here in the flesh,” Scotchy said.

“You’re right, it all worked out perfect. I’m just sorry about those players in Dublin, that’s the only fuckup,” I said.

“Aye, you killed one of them, Bruce, sent the other to the fucking hospital,” Scotchy said.

“You sure they weren’t there to kill me?” I asked.

“What for, Bruce? I owe you. I wouldn’t kill you. Listen, I would have been more explicit, but I couldn’t have my name bandied about, not with Bridget’s people everywhere. I’d thought they’d lift you easy, bring you to me. I swear, Bruce, I wasn’t trying to top you. Jesus, why would I?”

“You might have thought I’d abandoned you in Mexico, Scotchy,” I said with genuine guilt.

“Fuck no. You did good getting out and killing that fucker Darkey White and his fucking evil apprentices. I wouldn’t hurt you, Bruce. I was proud of you. I am proud of you. You’re my kid brother,” Scotchy said.

That was all I needed to hear.

The blessing. I was redeemed. The debt paid. I could end it now.

“I did it for you, Scotchy. I did it all for you.”

He smiled.

“I know,” he replied.

For you, Scotchy.

Forgive me.

I took the revolver out of my pocket.

“Bruce, we have to hurry on. Just glad you’re here to see this, can’t have all the revenge to your fucking self. The line has to end. Top the wean, top the lass. It’s rough, Bruce, but I have to do it. Getting off light, really.”

“Bridget didn’t have anything to do with it, Scotch. Believe me, I know.”

Scotchy snarled.

“She’s the inheritor, Bruce. She’s the fucking boss. And she was fucking engaged to that evil son of a bitch. I’m sure you’re not saying nobody was responsible for all my fucking years of pain.”

I nodded.

“Both of them, Scotchy? The wean, too?” I asked just to make sure.

“Aye, both of them.”

“But I know you told your boys not to touch the wee girl,” I said, giving him a last chance to recant.

“Aye, only me that does it. Only me. I have to kill them both, Bruce. Justice demands it,” he said regretfully.

“That’s what I thought, Scotchy,” I said, raised the revolver to his temple, pulled the trigger.

It clicked. I pulled the trigger again. The chamber rotated, the hammer came down. No bullet came out. Goddamn misfire. What do you expect with half the Atlantic in your pocket? I smacked the pistol butt into the side of Scotchy’s head and screamed at Bridget: “Hit the fucking deck.”

She dived on top of Siobhan. I smacked Scotchy again as hard as I could and ripped the Pecheneg out of his grip. He fell to the ground. Bullets tore up the inside of the cave. Marty fired at me and Scotchy. I shot the Pecheneg for a count of two full seconds at Marty’s chest. It tore a hole the size of a volleyball in his abdomen and as he fell backward, his intestines were flung into the air like silly spray from a joke can. Aghast, he scrambled to put his bloody guts back inside and died doing it.

Cassidy was too afraid of hitting Scotchy to shoot at me. Standing there paralyzed.

I aimed the Pecheneg high and gave him a burst that ripped his head apart.

Scotchy was on his feet. He had a handgun. He was pointing it at me. He was pulling the trigger.

Bridget leaped on top of him.

Fire in the barrel of the revolver. Scotchy pulling the trigger, rage contorting his face into even more hideous postures.

I dived for cover but thumped immediately into the cave wall. I couldn’t hear. Lights. Blood. Silence. Blackness coming down like the fucking guillotine.

One second, two seconds, three seconds. Trade seconds for years, I wouldn’t have known.

Bridget shaking me. Her face bruised, her lip bleeding.

“What the fuck?” I moaned.

I sat up. Two dead bodies in the cave. Marty and Cassidy.

“Scotchy?” I asked.

“Gone, grabbed Siobhan, I shot him in the back. Come on.”

She pulled me up.

“What happened?”

“I jumped him, he punched me, I grabbed the gun and he grabbed Siobhan, I shot him, he ran, come on.”

I sat up. The briefcase was gone too. He’d taken the time to lift that, too. And so, despite his words, this was a little bit about the money.

Bridget hauled me to my feet. I lifted one of the Pechenegs from the floor.

We ran to the cave mouth and I saw Scotchy running up the steps to the top of the cliff, dragging the girl after him. Not a bad feat for a skinny motherfucker like Scotchy.

“Are you sure you hit him?” I asked Bridget.

“I hit him.”

The rain was easing, but the steps carved into the cliff face were slick with water, seaweed, and spray.

Rifle fire from the lighthouse sparked across the rocks. The tracer helping the shooter to get a bead on us. Bullets ricocheting on the path dead ahead.

“Harry,” I said. Gang member number four.

And I saw that once Scotchy got to the top of the cliff, we were fucked. He could shoot us from a dozen high-angled positions around the lighthouse. And Jesus, if he couldn’t get Bridget he could still throw Bridget’s daughter off the cliff. Bridget’s daughter? Mine own precious darling girl.

Yes, I’ll move the Earth.

I ran the steps two at a time.

Pecheneg rounds smacking off the steps in front of and behind me.

I ran faster, slipped, got up.

But it was too late. Scotchy made it to the top. Harry passed him a revolver, they pushed the girl to the ground, and they both began to shoot. I stumbled and fell, dropped the machine gun. The only sensible policy now was to retreat back to the cave. But I kept fucking going. I sprinted the last of the bastard stairs.

Twenty feet from the top. Scotchy shooting a 9mm semi, Harry shooting the machine gun. I probably would have lasted a heroic two or three seconds more had not the briefcase in Scotchy’s left hand, at that exact moment, exploded in a huge ball of fire and white light.

A thunderflash, she’d fucking booby-trapped it with an army-issue thunderflash.

That’s my lass.

Scotchy screamed as his arm caught fire. Harry pushed him to the dirt and tried to roll him out. I made it to the top of the stairs just as Scotchy was getting to his feet.

“Bruce, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Scotchy yelled in a confusion of betrayal, rage, and disappointment. But there’s a time for talking and a time for not talking. Instead of giving him an answer, I jumped the fucker, threw him into Harry, rolled to the side, got to my feet.

Harry recovered, raised his Pecheneg. Bridget got to the top of the stairs and shot at him twice.

“Michael,” she screamed.

Harry turned to fire at her. I charged him, barreled him to the ground, knocked his rifle away, stabbed a finger in his eye, punched him in the throat, threw him over on his face, put my arm around his fat neck and my knee on his spine, and twisted his neck hard back-ward until it snapped and the life instantly went out of him.

Scotchy’s right hand was burned. But with his trembling left he found his gun, fired the rest of his clip at Bridget, every shot missing by miles. He slotted another clip, but I was on him. I head-butted him on the nose, breaking it. I grabbed his weapon hand and bit him on the thumb.

“Traitor, you traitor, Bruce,” he snarled, spitting the words out, kicking me.

“My name’s not Bruce,” I said and bit through his thumb, right to the bone. He screamed, dropped the weapon. I fell on him and we scrambled for the gun. I kicked it away from him and kneed him in the head. Somehow he rolled to one side and got to his feet. His skull cracked, his face covered with blood. He ran at me screaming with incandescent rage. I let him run, and I moved to the side like a fucking matador, grabbed him, threw him.

The poor bastard never had a chance.

His feet scrambled for purchase in the cold sea air and then he fell. Down, down, a hundred feet, into the sea, his body smashing to pieces on the razor-sharp rocks. There would be no resurrection this time, my old mate.

I sank to my knees.

I slumped forward, wavered for a moment, and cried…

A minute passed.

Bridget stroking my face.

Holding me.

Siobhan, dazed, looking at her ma. The spit of her mother. Right down to the crimson hair and the eyes like a forest glade. Still under, drugged, baffled, wondering what was going on. She wouldn’t remember a lot of this.

“It’s going to be ok, it’s going to be ok,” Bridget was saying.

“Mommy,” Siobhan said.

Bridget crawled next to me and all three of us held one another on the clifftop in the wind and rain.

“Michael, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said. “I lied about Siobhan. I didn’t tell you the whole story. I didn’t want it to be true. Oh God, I didn’t want it to be true. But it is.”

I nodded.

“Michael. It’s you. You’re her father,” Bridget said softly.

And as my fingertips reached for her fingertips and the blood dripped from my hand to her hand, I turned to her and said: “I know.”

The cliff path under the lighthouse. The sea had receded and the rain had ceased and turned to mist. The wind had slunk back to its box in Iceland. The scene was done and the sympathetic fallacy was back in force. Stars. I looked for the Southern Cross, but it wasn’t there. That was another hemisphere. Another time.

The girl was sleeping now. My daughter. Sleeping after all this. How could you not love her? I carried her wrapped in both our jackets. Behind us, shrouded in fog, the lighthouse keeping ghost time in broad beams across the sea.

We walked and Siobhan slept and we stopped at the first house we saw. A white timber frame with palm trees up the drive. Palm trees in Ireland. A thing that always made me smile. I carried Siobhan between the trees and up the gravel path. Bridget knocked on the door.

A kid answered. Big guy in jeans and Metallica T-shirt. He looked at me, Bridget, and then Siobhan.

“Has there been an accident?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You better come in. Do youse need an ambulance?” he asked calmly.

“We’re ok. The girl’s shaken up, she’s sleeping, but she’ll need a doctor,” I said.

“In to the left, have a seat, I’ll dial 999.”

We went in. The kid phoned for the authorities and a few minutes later brought towels and chocolate biscuits. He told us his name was Patrick. He was about nineteen, alone here tonight as his parents were at a Handel concert in Belfast.

I nodded, unable to speak. That adrenaline crash was coming. Exhausted, I could have slept right there on the couch.

Four of us sitting there.

“Do you want a blanket or anything for the girl?” he asked.

“Aye,” I said and gave him a wee look. The sort of look only a gunman can give. He took the hint.

“I’ll bring that tea, get you towels, youse just relax now, the ambulance might be a while getting down the path; but it’ll get here.”

He got up, gave me a nod to show that he understood my wish to be left alone.

“Cheers, thanks,” I said.

And when he had gone, Bridget sighed, leaned back on the sofa, began to cry. We sat in silence, listening to the waves retreating on the stony beach.

Siobhan woke, looked at her mother and father, whimpered for a moment, and with a single caress from Bridget fell back into a doze.

Bridget turned to me.

“A week ago I would have given anything to see you dead,” she said.

“Aye, and a week ago I would have given anything just to see you,” I said.

“So what happens next? After tomorrow we wake up like Cinderella and try to murder each other again? Or does this change everything?” she asked.

This changes everything, I thought.

I looked at her.

“You want to know what happens next?” I asked in a whisper.

“I do.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. The first thing we do is get out of Ireland. Your man Moran wants me dead, so you’ll either have to talk to him, or we’ll have to kill him. Or we’ll have to give him the slip.”

“We?”

“We.”

She stared at me and mused the word over in her mind. Her tired eyes processing the information.

“We,” she said, really considering the possibility for the first time.

“We,” I insisted. “And then you’ll retire and I’ll retire and we’ll move to Peru.”

“Peru, are you kidding?”

“It’s got a bad rap, but I really like it there. We’ll move there and we’ll have more kids and we’ll watch the sun set over the Pacific, and with your dough we can buy a big house with stables and trails up into the mountains and a Lima pied-à-terre in the Calle de las Siete Revueltas. And we’ll be done with the life. Done with it. And Siobhan will go to school and she’ll speak Spanish and English and be smart and beautiful and content; as will her brothers and sisters, and we’ll ride horses, and surf, and eat steak, and all live happily ever after.”

And Bridget thought about it.

She thought about me and retirement and what that would mean. And she thought about Siobhan. And she lived with the past too.

That Christmas night in 1992. Me cutting her fiancé’s throat.

She thought about that.

I could read her. I always could, or at least I imagined I could. Her emotions like ripples on the lough, or a sidewinder on the desert floor. What was owed and what was paid. And who deserved to die and who deserved to live. And how easy it would be to kill me tonight and be done with it all. Except that you’re never done. Never.

That was one universe of possibilities.

But there was another. An escape from the blood feud and the vendetta and the law of honor. The alternative, a new life in a new world. I knew she had picked up Scotchy’s gun and I knew she could use it. And if it was going to happen, it was going to happen now, before the cops showed, with the witness out of the room, with her girl back safe and sound. “After all this we had a terrible accident with the gun, officer.”

I waited, flinched. Dan’s troika arguing it out. The general, the killer, the mother. The strong, the vengeful, the weak.

Her hand reached inside her coat.

The lids closed on those big emerald eyes.

Opened again.

She produced a gun, Scotchy’s gun.

She set it on the sofa.

I looked at Bridget and I looked at the gun. Neither of us moved. Then Bridget reached in her coat again and found the thing she’d really been searching for: a brush. She began taking the knots out of Siobhan’s hair. She tried to say something, coughed. Her throat was hoarse from crying and she couldn’t speak, but her head bobbed the affirmative, and finally, in that husky, tired New York whisper, she said simply:

“Yes.”