Christine Falls: A Novele by Benjamin Black Read Free Book Online Page B

heavy, animal hush. Each man could hear the blood beating in his temples, Mal’s from anger and Quirke’s from the effect of too much whiskey. Then Quirke sidestepped his brother-in-law, saying, “Good night, Mal,” in a tone of leaden irony. On his way to the door he stopped, and turned, and asked, in a deliberately light, conversational tone, “Was Christine Falls your patient?”
    Mal blinked, the glossy lids falling with a curious kind of languor over the swollen eyeballs. “What?”
    “Christine Falls—the one who died: was she your patient? Is that why you were down in the department last night, poking in the files?” Mal said nothing, only stood and looked at him with that dull, protuberant stare. “I hope you haven’t been a naughty boy, Mal. Negligence cases can be very costly.”

     

    HE WAS IN THE HALL, WAITING FOR MAGGIE TO BRING HIS COAT AND hat. If he was quick he would make it to McGonagle’s before closing time; Barney Boyle would still be there, drunker than ever, but he could handle Barney when there were just the two of them and no Phoebe to get Barney’s dander up. He might find a woman there, too, and persuade her to come back with him to the flat, if he could sneak her past the unsleeping Mr. Poole and his alertly deaf wife. My life, he thought. My mess of a life.
    Maggie came with his things, mumbling to herself. She held his coat, and he inquired of her yet again, although he thought it was for the first time, how she was getting on, and she clicked her tongue in irritation and said he should go home now and sleep it off, so he should.
    Something struck him, a hazed recollection. “That girl you mentioned earlier,” he said. “Who was that?”
    She frowned at the collar of his coat as she handed it to him. “What?”
    He was struggling to remember.
    “ The one that died, you said. Who was she?”
    She shrugged.
    “Something Falls.”
    He looked into the crown of his hat, the greasy darkness there. Falls, Christine. That name again. He was about to ask another question when a peremptory voice spoke behind him. “And where do you think you’re going?”
    It was Phoebe.
    “Home,” he lied.
    “And leave me with this crowd? Not on your nelly.”
    Maggie made a sound that might have been a snigger. Phoebe, shaking her head in mock disbelief at Quirke’s willingness to abandon her, took a shawl that was draped over the stair post and wrapped it around her shoulders. Firmly she grabbed his hand. “Lead on, big boy.”
    Maggie grew suddenly agitated. “What’ll I say if they ask me?” she demanded, a rising whine.
    “Tell them I’ve run away with a sailor,” Phoebe told her.
    Outside, the night had turned chilly and Phoebe clung close to him as they walked along. Above the light of the streetlamps the massy beeches that lined the street had a spectral aspect, their leaves drily rustling. All the drink that Quirke had drunk had begun to go stale in him in the night’s chill, and he felt a clammy melancholy creeping along his veins. Phoebe too seemed despondent, suddenly. She was silent for a long while, and then asked: “What were you and Mummy fighting about?”
    “We weren’t fighting,” Quirke said. “We were having a conversation. It’s what grown-ups do.”
    She snickered. “Oh, yes? Some conversation.” Eagerly she clutched his arm. “Were you telling her you still love her, and that you’re sorry you didn’t marry her instead of her sister?”
    “You read too many trashy magazines, my girl.”
    She lowered her head and laughed. The night air breathed on him, and he realized how tired he was. It had been a long day. From the eager manner in which Phoebe was clinging to him he feared it was not over yet. He would have to cut down on his drinking, he told himself sternly, while another part of his mind laughed at him in mockery.
    “Granddad really is fonder of you than he is of Daddy, isn’t he?” Phoebe said, and then, when he did not answer, “What was it