Dark Times in the City by Gene Kerrigan Read Free Book Online Page B

didn’t see his face but it had to be – look, Karl’s always—’
    ‘What did he do?’
    ‘They had guns, Mr Mackendrick, they came into a pub, both of them – I was fucking lucky to get out of there alive.’
    ‘Walter, I’ll come round to your place – we need to—’
    ‘I’m not at home.’
    ‘Where are you staying?’
    Walter shook his head. He kept respect in his voice when he said, ‘Mr Mackendrick, it’s not that I – I just don’t want to say.’
    ‘That’s fair enough. A thing like this – look, Walter – whatever happened, it had nothing to do with me and I’m really angry. You know I’m depending on you, Walter, and – I swear to you, whatever caused this balls-up, nothing like this will happen again.
Ever
.’
    Walter opened his mouth, desperately needing to believe in Mackendrick, and closed it again, afraid of his own need for reassurance.
    ‘You ring me back tomorrow, Walter, or the next day, whenever you feel okay with that. I won’t sleep on it – tonight, soon as I hang up, I’m going to find out what the hell’s going on. When you’re ready, we’ll meet, we’ll sort this out.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘I can’t imagine what it’s about, but – Jesus Christ—’
    Walter had never heard Mackendrick lose his composure. Where there had only been dread, there was now a sliver of hope.
    ‘Leave it with me, Walter, leave it with me.’
    When the call ended, Walter stood in the street, holding the phone down by his side, wondering if he dared go home after all. The rain was heavier now and his jacket was soaked. He decided going home would be stupid. It’d have to be Sissy’s sofa again tonight.
    Danny Callaghan was on his second Scotch, standing at the window of his apartment, the lights out. He let his tongue play with the taste, then let the liquid down.
    A good day
.
    Behind him, the radio was playing something soft and melodic. It was a classical station he’d listened to a lot in prison. Callaghan didn’t know any of the composers, he hardly ever registered the titles of pieces. He just liked the feeling that came with the music. In prison the radio had been important, and it remained a partof his day. Mostly music, usually switching to RTE to get news on the hour. He listened to most of the news shows and the phone-ins. When he was inside, news of the real world had been important. If he knew what was happening he could have opinions about it, he could feel like he was still part of that world. He read a couple of newspapers each day, the real ones, the ones you could almost believe were telling something close to the truth.
    In the seven months since he’d left prison, there’d been a lot of days that dribbled to an end in the small hours, his tiredness a consequence of nothing except squandered time. He had the liberty he’d longed for, year after tedious year, and he was doing nothing with it. Days like today made him feel like he had some control over his time. Driving a couple of businessmen around wasn’t what he’d pictured himself doing with his freedom, but it gave a structure to the day. He was doing something useful. And earning money. On top of the wages he’d get from Novak he got a sizeable tip from Rowe and Warner when he dropped them off at the Hilton. And another bonus was that the guy from 257 Solutions hadn’t soiled the car on the way home.
    A good day
.
    The soft music ended and something different started. Jerky, noisy shit, like someone was trying to get a military band to put a nightmare to music. He crossed to the radio and tried the pre-sets. After surfing past a couple of pop stations he found a talk show he’d often listened to in prison. Sometimes it seemed as if the city was full of lonely, angry headbangers.
    ‘We don’t clutter up their country, do we?’
    The radio hack said, ‘Can’t argue with that, Barney.’
    The caller’s next sentence was a succession of obscenities. The radio hack emitted a prolonged chuckle. ‘Now,