“As for you, you poor fuck, I don’t know…” Deegan murmured, and he pointed the gun at Minogue’s face.
“Don’t,” Minogue whispered.
The report seemed louder now since the lull in firing had intervened. Deegan went sideways with a grunt. Minogue tore open his eyes in time to see Deegan’s surprised face fall obliquely by him.
“Jesus, Jesus,” he heard Deegan wheeze from the floor.
Minogue tugged and drew up his knees to turn the chair but he could not. He turned his head as far as he could and saw Sheila Howard’s head resting against the wall. Her chin was jammed down on her breastbone and purple spots were on her face. Though her eyelids looked closed, he thought he saw a liquid glint by her eyelashes. Her arm was lying on her chest and she held the pistol loosely on her thigh. Where she had pulled up her jumper to get the gun out, Minogue saw a band of skin where blood spidered and dripped onto the floor.
Deegan made the wet, choking sound of a smoker summoning phlegm. Minogue heard his clothes rustle slowly along the floor, his huge limbs rubbing as he tried to rise. There was a glottal gasp and the rubbing stopped.
Cold, the floor. Minogue had driven his knee into the cement as he fell and it had that warm watery numbness he knew would turn to pain. An aura of blue smoke, moving slightly, circled the light bulb. He rested and breathed and watched the layers of smoke forming, sliding across one another and settling into stillness. The sting of cordite needled the top of his nose as he listened again. An irregular sigh of breathing turned to rasping breath and a short, faint squeal before returning fainter. Jesus, not now, he thought. Was one of them alive and getting up? Schemes flew into his mind, each desperate and quickly discarded. Elbow his way across the room and see if anyone had a penknife or a sharp tool. There must be some tool in the house, in the main rooms-but how to get over these bodies? He felt the cold only as a relief, grudging proof that he was still alive.
Then came a bubbly snore. He stared at Sheila Howard and saw her eyes open, staring across at his. A small new line came from the side of her mouth. She closed her eyes and coughed. A gout of blood oozed down her chin and her body made a spasm. She rolled onto her side and coughed again. Minogue froze and watched her creeping and scraping her way across the floor, heard her gurgling.
“Take it easy now,” he whispered and immediately realised how absurd the remark was. She took a deep, rasping breath and whispered in a tone so lucid that Minogue was startled.
“I’m bad, I can’t feel where…”
“If I can get free,” he started to say.
“I warned Ciaran about him.” She had squeezed out the words. She gave a wrenching cough and groaned. He closed his eyes. He heard something spill on the floor. He opened his eyes again. She seemed to be resting, her face down on the floor. He began yanking on the chair, scraping and kicking.
Minogue began to jerk the chair, each time sending shooting pains through his shoulder and chest.
Finally, as he rocked the chair, something gave way. The seat of the chair hung loose. Slowly he pulled in his elbows and he heard a spindle hit the cement with a hollow tock. His arms were weak but the cords were now slack. He stood crookedly and spindles from the chair-back fell to the floor. The blood rushed to his head as he stood and he felt the room come at him. Pain surging up from his legs took most of the room’s light with it and he lurched to the wall. As the room reappeared, it seemed to swell and the colours take fire. He glanced down at Deegan sprawled over Finbarr. Deegan’s head had fallen back and then sideways so that he seemed to be examining the dark stain on Finbarr’s jacket. His pistol was on the floor next to his hand. Finbarr lay curled up and half under Deegan. One arm was twisted behind, with the pool of blood spreading from under him.
Still struggling to shake the seat and legs of the chair free, he tottered toward the door. The light flared again and he leaned against a wall to fight the returning surges of dizziness. Suddenly he was gripped by fear. Who was sobbing like that, panting nearby? He turned, a shout already in his throat, expecting to see Deegan in the doorway. No one came. It was his own breath, he realised.
He elbowed away from the wall. Run. He was swaying now and the shapes were hanging and falling around the edges of his vision again. With the twine loose, he brought his right hand around. He stumbled toward the front door and pulled it open. He stopped in the doorway and gaped. The roof of the van was like a still lake reflecting the sky. A Ford Escort was parked alongside the van; Deegan’s, he guessed. His feet moved under him and he was on his way to the van’s door. A buzzer sounded as he pulled it open: keys in the ignition. He left the door hanging and rested his back against the panel. His palms flattened out on the cold metal and he felt his breathing ease. The buzzer filled the sky with its ripping squeak. The colours on the ground had already darkened and the bushes stood out thick against the milky sky. She might still be alive in there, he thought. He listened for sounds but heard only a solitary bird. He stared through the grove of trees and the overgrown bushes at the Burren heights. The stone seemed to be draining light from the sky. Was he going to pass out? He looked at the open door of the cottage. Should he go back for her?
Minogue turned when he heard the distant hum of a car over the tar macadam. He caught glimpses of a dark-coloured car coming at speed up the narrow road. The driver had not turned on his headlights, but Minogue had already spotted the silvered reflections of the sky on the roof-lights of the car. He stumbled back to the van, reached in and held his hand on the horn. He watched the wheels of the Garda car bounce as it came up the laneway, and he saw a face close up to the window.
The tyres bit and skidded as the squad car came to a stop behind the van. Doors opened and he heard voices, a radio. Somebody said his name. He didn’t have to go back into that house, he was thinking. He walked haltingly toward the car.
“Yes,” he replied to a question. His voice sounded unfamiliar to him now. “Inside… There was shooting. I think they’re dead.”
He wanted to tell them to switch off the noise from the radio. He heard someone say his name on the radio, then repeat it. He knew the voice. The sky jigged and flickered and changed colour.
“She’s in there and I think maybe-” he began.
His knees pulled him down but it didn’t hurt. Hands stopped him falling further. They pulled him up from his knees and grabbed him under his arms.
“Look,” he heard someone say as the sky turned and closed over him. “Is he shot?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I don’t believe it,” Kilmartin murmured. “It must be a joke.” He looked over at Minogue. “Did you ever hear anything so stupid in all your life?”
Minogue shook his head. He dabbed his fingers over his eye. The lump had gone down a little. The X-rays had showed nothing on his knee either. His chest hurt when he breathed in deep. The bruise on his shoulder ran half-way over his shoulder-blade. He felt stupid sitting in a hospital bed.
“What?” Hoey asked. He was leaning on the window-sill.
“It says that a man thinks about sex an average of six times every hour.”
“Who says?” Hoey said.
“A scientist in the States. Somebody’s after codding someone there, by God. Makes you wonder how many millions were wasted on that. God, six times every hour. That’s impossible if you’re doing a proper day’s work.”