‘I worry about you.’
‘Says the guy with his arm in a sling and a chest like a punchbag.’ I take another bite of the apple, looking him over, the different shades of skin. ‘So is this it now? Frank Hickey pisses someone off and you pay the price? A beating every few months. Maybe a stabbing or a shooting every now and again and just hope they miss the vital organs?’
He says nothing, but I’m not letting up. ‘Jacqui said Frank was here earlier. Good of him to drop by. I don’t remember him bothering that time you had pneumonia.’
‘It was good of him. He’s a good friend.’
I laugh sharply. ‘Oh, he’s the best, Dad, the absolute best. So good he threatened to make sure my boss and Aiden found out about Maryanne unless I fed him information.’ I lower my voice. ‘Information that could get people killed. Is that what good friends do? Blackmail each other’s kids? Threaten to ruin their lives?’
‘And he backed off as soon as I told him to.’
‘Told him to,’ I scoff. ‘As soon as you gave him a better offer, you mean. His right-hand man, his blood brother, back in the firm, under his thumb – he wasn’t going to turn that down, was he?’ I pause, pretending to work something out. ‘Remind me, Dad, how long did you actually manage to go straight for? Eighteen months? Two years?’
He has my wrist before I blink. ‘You need to wise the fuck up, sweetheart.’ And there it is – doting father to snarling villain. Dad could always turn on a sixpence. ‘You wanted Frank off your back and he wanted me back in the fold, so we made an agreement and he’s honoured it. Now get off your high horse and stop acting like an ungrateful little bitch.’
My eyes swoop over his bruised body. ‘I didn’t want this. And get off, you’re hurting me.’
‘I’m sorry . . . I’m . . .’ His grip loosens. He stares at his hand, at my wrist, dazed by his own aggression. ‘I’m so sorry . . . But you have to understand, this was the only way I could stop him, the only way I could protect you. This is the life I lead now. And if you work for Frank Hickey, you’re going to upset some people along the way. Sometimes you’ll come off better and sometimes you’ll come off worse. End of story. No drama.’
Just par for the course. An industrial accident of sorts.
‘What was it you thought I’d do, Cat?’
Even with the circus of sound behind the curtain; the shouts, the moans, the endless pairs of shoes scuffing across floors, right now, there’s only us. Me, him, and the ever-present spectre of guilt.
‘Did you think I’d just say, “Ah now, Frank, would you leave the young one alone? Don’t be threatening her, it’s not nice,” and he’d listen?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘So what did you think . . . how did you think . . .?’
Unfinished questions clog the air, a dense mist of noxious gas.
So did I want Frank Hickey dead?
Yeah, I’m not ashamed to admit I did.
I wanted him falling off a ladder, struck by lightning, maybe floored by a fatal bout of dysentery. I’d have even settled for a peaceful passing in his bed, surrounded by the acolytes he calls family, if it meant never having to fear what he could unleash ever again.
But did I want Dad to kill him?
I’m a police officer.
Of course not.
*
It’s late when I get to Aiden’s. Too late to eat the plate of picnic food he’s left in the fridge, covered in tin foil – a scrap of paper on top, speared with a cocktail stick.
You’d test the patience of a saint, Kinsella.
Not too late for an argument, though.
‘Since when have you been a heavy sleeper? I rang the bell five times.’ There’s accusation in my voice, a cherry tomato in my hand. ‘What did you double-lock the door for?’
He’s standing in the hallway, rubbing sleep out of his left eye and looking like everything I ever wanted in a pair of white Calvin Kleins.
‘It got so late, I didn’t think you were coming back here. I mean, you wouldn’t know if the mighty detective was going to grace you with her presence or not.’
‘You’ve been graced nearly every night for the past month. It’d have been a fair assumption.’
‘Yeah, your furnace of a flat isn’t much fun in a heatwave, is it? Having to leave all the windows open, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. Much cooler – more convenient – to doss here.’
I give him a flat stare. ‘Oh, because that’s the only reason I stay. I’m only after you for your floor fan.’
‘OK, truth?’ he says, his look a little haughty. It’s a look he doesn’t carry well; Aiden’s the living antonym of haughty. ‘I locked the door to piss you off, plain and simple. Was that petty of me? Yeah. Does it make me feel two per cent better? Hell, yeah.’ He steps into the half-light of the living room. ‘So come on then, eyes down for a full house – Cat Kinsella Excuse Bingo. What was it tonight? Bad reception? Battery died? Too many Bad Guys to nail to spare a thought for the Good Guy at home, waiting for one lousy update?’ He shakes his head. Disgust would be too strong a word, despair its closest ally. ‘Seriously, Cat – “Sorry, can’t make picnic” and then nothing? That’s lame, even for you.’
I know I deserve it but his anger still stings. I’m not used to this version. Not familiar with the hard lines of his face. I pause, buying time; eating the tomato and then poking my tongue into a filling I should have got sorted months ago.
Should I say ‘work’ – the catch-all excuse?
‘My dad was in A&E. I had to stay with him. I’m really sorry.’
It’s out before I overthink it. Aiden bolts over, comfort always his primal response.
‘Jesus, is he OK? What happened? Are you OK?’
I could tell him the truth. Aiden knows that Dad’s ‘dodgy’. He never presses beyond that description and I never expand on it, because ‘dodgy’ I can live with. ‘Dodgy’ is benign. An almost comic interpretation. It’s geezers selling gold chains in pub car parks. It’s not paying the VAT. Dishing out a few slaps for an unpaid debt. It doesn’t touch the sides of the stuff Dad’s been involved in. It doesn’t come close to the death of Aiden’s sister, Maryanne.
Not Dad’s doing, but arguably Dad’s fault.
‘Broken arm. Beer barrel.’ I tell him, toeing the party line.
‘Ouch.’
A simple response and I love him for it. For not asking for details.
‘Not to make this about me,’ he says after a few seconds, instinctively knowing I’ll be only too happy to make it about him, the subject of Dad now closed, ‘did I ever tell you about the time I broke my arm? I was only five. I did it a few hours before the biggest match in Ireland’s history. Quarter-finals of the World Cup – Ireland v Italy. No one had a bit of sympathy for me. Dad had to drive me and Mam to the hospital in Castlebar and he’d had a feed of beer already – said if he got pulled over by the Guards, he’d break the other arm and my two legs. And Mam was hopping mad about missing the game. Like, she could hardly look at me. Even the nurses seemed fecked off at having to work their shift.’