Part 29 (1/2)
She didn't hear me. She too looked to be in shock, still trying to hold in the spaghetti of guts that overflowed her hands. I walked across, picked her gun up, slipped it deep into the pocket of the fleece. Then I went to the doorway. The Colt .45 must have weighed a ton but his arm didn't waver. He said, soft: ”How you doing, son?”
”Fine, Joe. Now the cavalry is here.”
His eyes were still wide, blue and wild but at least he'd made an attempt to comb his hair. He said: ”What happens now?”
”What happens now is you go home. I'll look after it from here.”
”There's more?”
”It's only getting started, Joe. But I'm getting the hang of it, fast.”
”Don't kid yourself, son. You never get the hang of it.” He gestured at Helen Conway and Tony Sheridan. ”But whatever it is, you don't need these catching up with you at the wrong time.”
”No thanks, Joe. It's bad enough, me getting you caught up in it. From now on it's my rap.”
”You'll do what you're told, son. And I'm telling you to f.u.c.k off and do whatever you have to do. I'll just sit here and have a smoke, wait'll I hear the all clear.”
”Your call, Joe.”
”My call, son.”
I helped Katie up, put an arm around her shoulders, which were shaking almost as hard as my own.
”We're going to get you to a hospital, Katie. Okay?”
She didn't respond. She didn't seem to be aware of my presence, still staring at Helen Conway. When I tried to move her towards the door she resisted, reached for the gun in my hand. I held it away, out of her reach. The Ice Queen was slipping fast, shaking hard, pain eating into the shock, blood ebbing out into the kind of pool that has a deep end. She glared, baleful. I looked away, more important things to do than be turned to stone.
I checked on Tony Sheridan. He was still panned out. I cracked him another one, in case he was playing possum. Then I led Katie out of the room, patted Joe on the shoulder in pa.s.sing. He didn't acknowledge me. Helen Conway watched us go, face ugly with loathing. I winked at her.
”Sorry about the hole. A good girl like you, Santa's bound to bring bandages.”
She spat something, through bubbles of blood. I made a wish. It was my third new expletive in as many days.
24.
The bells of The Friary were ringing for midnight ma.s.s, the sound coming sharp in the clear night air. The cold air started me coughing, which brought up blood, but then that's a sixty-a-day hazard.
I helped Katie into the car and got in, tugged up the jacket, checked the wound. The bullet hitting the pro had opened the hole again; blood was leaking from under the bandage, weak and thin. I watched it ooze, not feeling any pain. It was just the way things were, something else to deal with it, to get past.
I eased the car down the street, leaving it in second gear, letting gravity do the work. The snow was slick with frost, thick enough to keep all but the most dedicated penitents from venturing out, which meant The Friary would have a higher ratio of drunks to G.o.d-fearing Catholics than usual. It was a good time to get Katie to emergency, before the winos started shuffling up the Mall, looking for a warm bed for the night that was in it. I met no traffic on the drive through town.
Katie stared straight ahead, seeing nothing. Cradling her swollen fist, whimpering when her hand moved. Her complexion was cream cheese, the orange mop of hair in shocking contrast to the pale below. She seemed oblivious.
In the hospital car park, I leaned across and touched her cheek. She didn't flinch. I was tempted to touch the ugly welts on her throat but I got out the car, locked it, crunched through the snow to the hospital. I knew it was callous thing to do, leaving her alone. I knew that. I didn't feel it.
The antiseptic smell washed over me when the automatic doors slid back, the blast of heat giving me goose b.u.mps. The girl behind the reception desk was mid-twenties, homely, eyeing me over a pair of half-moon gla.s.ses as I made for the desk, begrudging the effort of sliding the window back. I didn't hold it against her. No one wants to be in hospital on Christmas Eve, least of all the staff.
”Hi,” I breezed, digging deep. ”I'd like to check on a friend of mine?”
”I'm sorry.” Her tone that let me know that, whatever she was apologising for, it was my fault. ”Visiting hours finished two hours ago.”
”That's okay. I just want to know how he's doing. He came in this morning. Hit and run. His name is Herbie O'Malley.”
”I'm sorry,” she said, a mechanical tone, ”but we could only release that information to a family member.”
”I'm a family member.”
She frowned.
”You just said you were his friend.”
”He's a cousin, actually. But we're good mates too.”
”I'm sorry, only immediate family members are privy to that kind of information.”
”His family are away for Christmas. I'm the only one around. I'm going to be ringing them later, and I'd like to let them know how he is.”
”You're not going to go away until you find out, are you?”
I smiled, apologetic.
”Alright,” she sighed. ”Wait a minute.”
She pulled the window closed, so I couldn't hear what she was saying, made a couple of calls. Pulled the window open again, holding the phone against her none too impressive embonpoint.
”Herbie O'Malley?”
”That's right.”
”And you are?”
”Frankie Byrne. His cousin.”
”Hold on.”
Back went the gla.s.s door. She finished the call. Again with the window.
”Herbie O'Malley wasn't involved in a hit and run.”
”No? I heard he was, in the pub. The boys said he'd been mangled.”
”Well, he's badly hurt alright. He's still in intensive care. He's going to need extensive surgery but the ECTs showed up positive. There's no serious tissue damage and he's in a stable condition.”
”Thanks a million. You've been a great help.”