Chapter One
Declan Farrell heard a metallic glunk and he turned to see the dull, grey gates close behind him. For the last time he hoped. The mid-January morning was as cold as anything he had ever felt but he didn’t seem to mind. The memory of a year in his cell beside the North Atlantic coast was hell frozen over enough to make the three degree winds now buffeting his freshly-shaved face seem almost clement. The sky was clear of clouds except for the wispiest cotton cirrus thousands of feet above him.
He walked out along the tarmac driveway of the prison that led to the Seacoast Road. He carried a single duffel bag containing a few clothes, toiletries and a photograph of Sonya that he’d taken some years before while they had been on holiday in the south.
It had been four years ago. They had rented a little fisherman’s cottage beside Lough Corrib near Oughterard in County Galway. They had spent one long, glorious, loving week there just wandering, walking, taking in the sweeping panoramas of the lakes, mountains and bog land that seemed to sweep forever west out towards Connemara. They had visited Aughanure Castle, a 16th century fortress formerly controlled by the local O’Flaherty clan. Farrell had run to the top of the castle and hid on Sonya who laboured within the dark confines of the walls for a good ten minutes trying to locate him. When he was sure that she was never going to find him he ran down through the ice-cold stairwell and found her on a lower level gazing out upon Lough Corrib. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight. Sonya exhaled a small, girlish giggle, called him an idiot, then kissed him. It had been the happiest moment of Farrell’s life.
That night they took a taxi into Oughterard, holding hands in the back seat and giggling all the way like children. The taxi dropped them off at the far end of Main Street near the bridge and they wandered for a little while before having dinner at the Waterlily Restaurant by the river. Farrell remembered having steak while Sonya had ordered duck. After dessert Farrell had proposed on one knee, producing a Claddadh ring from a finely pressed cotton handkerchief. The other people in the restaurant had fawned and Farrell felt the weight of their gazes. He had never been as nervous in his life, even on an operation but there had been never any doubt in his mind that she would say ‘yes’.
He looked down at the ring in is trembling fingers. The crowned heart rested between two hands. He placed the ring onto Sonya’s finger, the heart towards her hand and silently mouthed the words, I love you. She kissed him while he was still on his knee and he could taste the sweetness of the duck and the orange sauce from the dessert she had eaten. He had wanted her right there, such was the immediacy of the lust and emotion running through him.
That night, back at the cottage by the lake, she had made love to him in a way that she never had in the past. It had taken him aback. She had been unrestrained, animal-like in her ferocity and had left a series of raw scratches covering his body. He remembered feeling pain in his penis too as she came down upon him with her pelvis, keeping him in place with her outstretched arms and vice-like grip on his short, dark hair. Her long hair had fallen over her face so that Farrell couldn’t see her features. For a moment she had resembled what Farrell had imagined as a boy what a banshee would look like, all flailing, lake-damp hair and faceless. Disturbing as the brief image had been Farrell had felt moved to further extremes of lust by it. Sonya knew that she was probably hurting him and Farrell realised that this was driving him on as well, becoming less delicate with her until they were no longer making love but something else. It had been raw, brutal, urgent sex.
Sonya sat on the side of a little rowing boat drinking tea the next morning by the edge of the lake and Farrell had come up beside her with his camera. She had turned upon hearing his footsteps on the gravel and he had snapped her picture. She had looked happy and content, yet sad. It was his favourite photo of her. He had looked at it every night for a year before lights-out, inside.
Farrell continued down the prison driveway towards the main road. A seagull passed overhead heading towards Lough Foyle and Magilligan Point. Farrell squinted in the morning sun and followed the seagull’s path across the bright sky until it ducked down behind a sand dune and disappeared. He imagined the bird winging its way out past the robust Martello tower where he, Sonya, Devlin and the rest of the crew had always had their beach parties, towards Benone Strand and the border of dramatic sea cliffs that hugged the ocean all the way around to the Giant’s Causeway. The marram grass covering the dunes all around him swayed with the North Atlantic wind. Farrell could smell the fresh, salty air as it blew in off the sea. The smell of the sea had kept him aloft for his year inside. Knowing he was close to the ocean and the coast and being able to smell the Atlantic, the waves alive and infinite, spurred him on during his stay when others had slowly given up.
A car pulled up and stopped about fifty yards up the road from the prison driveway. Farrell headed out to meet the three figures that exited the vehicle. He didn’t recognise the car. He was expecting Devlin but this wasn’t Devlin’s car. At about thirty yards Farrell recognised the men.
Roman Devlin, Victor McCloskey and Noel Devine strolled down the road towards Farrell, each with a spring in his step. Farrell’s step slowed a little as he realised Sonya wasn’t with them. He inhaled a deep breath against the disappointment and fixed a brave face for the men.
“Declan, how’s about ye?” Devine beamed, as Farrell approached the trio.
“Not bad, Noel, not bad at all,” Farrell replied, sticking out his hand and shaking Devine’s. Devine squeezed Farrell’s hand like it was a stress ball. Devine was all jumpy and excited like a little boy on Christmas morning.
“Declan,” McCloskey said with a smile, his eyes serious. “Good to see you.”
“Victor.” It was all that Farrell could muster. There had never been any love lost between the two and happy as Farrell was to be out he wasn’t about to let his joy extend to false platitudes of friendship or affection. They shook hands quickly.
Roman Devlin shot out an arm and shook Farrell’s right hand. Devlin’s left arm swung around Farrell’s back and they embraced for what seemed like ten minutes.
“Jesus,” Devlin said into Farrell’s left ear, still in the embrace, “it’s bloody good to see you mucker. Bloody good.”
“Good to see you too, Dev. Thanks for pickin’ me up,” Farrell replied, easing out of the embrace slowly and not wanting to offend Devlin’s eagerness.
Dev. It had been his teenage nickname for Devlin and he still liked it. It still suited him. Farrell liked it even more because he was the only one allowed to use it. He was Roman or Devlin to everyone else. Dev was Farrell’s.
“All right, girls, break it up,” Devine said, smiling a schoolboy smile.
“Do you want a slap?” McCloskey asked him.
“Jesus, Victor, I’m only jokin’.”
Devlin slapped Farrell on the shoulder as their bodies parted. He said, “How they been treating you in there, then?”
“Pretty good, considering,” Farrell replied, not really sure about how he should answer. “They’re not a bad bunch once you get to know them.”
McCloskey shot him one of his infamous stares. Farrell should have known not to have ventured anything more than he needed to. He chided himself for the slip and made a mental note to keep his mouth shut around McCloskey. McCloskey was as unforgiving as a stretch of autobahn – there was no veering off the road whatsoever. Friends were friends, enemies were enemies. There was no in-between, no grey area, no shades of possibility.
“You look as if you’ve lost a wee bit of weight there,” Devlin said, smiling, patting Farrell on the stomach and pretending to punch his face. Farrell ducked and smiled.
“Probably, but then again, you try putting a few pounds on with the grub they serve in there.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. You all right?” Devlin asked, looking concerned. “You seem a wee bit down, tired.”
“Aye, Dev, tired, that’s all. It’s been very hard sleeping the last few nights. Must have been the excitement.”
“Excitement? Anything happen in there?” Devlin asked, his smile slipping away instantly to a thin line of gravity.
“No, Dev, nothing happened,” Farrell smiled, amused and warmed by Devlin’s brotherly concern. “I couldn’t sleep because I knew I was getting out. I’m dog tired.”
Farrell looked at the car further up the road. It was a large, gold four-door Rover saloon, the kind usually driven around the country by wealthy, fat farmers. Money was scarce but someone was doing well. They began walking towards the vehicle.
“Whose car?” Farrell asked.
“Mine,” Devlin replied, jangling the car keys around in his pocket. He took them out and threw them up into the air, catching them with a superfluous swipe of the air. “She’s lovely isn’t she. Got her a few months back. C’mon, I’ll take you for a spin in her. Fully air-conditioned an’ everything so she is. Here, gimme your bag.” Devlin slapped Farrell lightly on the back and relieved him of his duffel bag.
“Aye, she’s a beauty all right,” Devine added.
“Why’d you park her all the way up there?” Farrell asked.
“Cameras,” McCloskey answered, nodding back towards the prison walls. Large, black security cameras were mounted along the exterior walls of the prison at close intervals, covering the Seacoast Road, the prison driveway and the sand dunes beyond.
“Everywhere, they are,” McCloskey continued. “Don’t want to give them the slightest edge now, do we?”
Farrell didn’t reply, not wanting to be drawn in by McCloskey’s leading question. But then he just thought fuck it. He couldn’t think of a single reason why he should let McCloskey control their conversations.
“You know, Victor, with all the time I’ve just spent in there I must have just got used to all the cameras being around. I didn’t mean to suggest that it’s not important to keep a low profile. I mean, we do have to keep a low profile, right?”
“Right,” McCloskey agreed smugly.
“Right. We agree on that. But Victor, I’ve just spent a year in there. I’m pretty sure that they know who I am and we all know,” Farrell moved his hands across in front of him in opposite, circular, sweeping movements, “that they know all of us. So, what’s the big deal, eh?”
McCloskey didn’t reply but just kept his head down and walked on. Farrell regretted his comments almost immediately. He was no friend of McCloskey’s but he didn’t need him as an enemy either.
“No big deal, Declan,” Devlin interrupted, ever the diplomat, walking around to the driver side of the car. He inserted the car keys into the door. “All that matters is that you’re out and there’re a lot of grateful people want to say thanks to you.”
“For what?” Farrell asked, even though he knew what the answer would be. The answer had cost him a year.
“For doing the right thing, Declan,” Devlin replied, opening the car door. “Doing the right thing.”
“That’s right,” Devine added, “us included, there’re a lot of grateful people would like to see you.”
The two best friends looked at each over the hood of the car. It hardly seemed like ten years since they had been looking, smiling at each other over the hoods of stolen cars they had requisitioned as teenagers as part of their initiation into the organisation. But it had been ten years. Ten years of battle, lost friends, botched operations and successful ones, dreadful mistakes, celebrations, funerals, peace, prison and now what, limbo? So much had happened since they were teenage tear-abouts, eager for action and involvement but standing there, looking at each other across the top of the Rover, it seemed to Farrell that time had almost stood still. Nothing much seemed to have changed. They looked older, maybe that was all.
But just below the surface, like light refracted through shallow water, Farrell saw another look below Devlin’s smile at that moment, one that he had never seen before – pity. Farrell put it down to being fresh out, senses heightened, nerve ends reeling with all the new information flooding in. But the look unnerved him nonetheless.
“Why don’t you hop in the front, Declan?” Devlin motioned to McCloskey to step back from the front door. “Get a bird’s-eye view of your freedom.”
Farrell appreciated the thought but was determined not to take advantage of his just-released status. He didn’t want any special favours, not from anyone. Favouritism among this group seemed loaded with potential problems. If prison had taught him one thing it was to rely on nobody but yourself. Get by on your own steam. He had seen men inside, good men, fall apart and become cracked shells of themselves waiting, hoping, relying on the friends and loved ones outside to prevent the weight of prison life from bearing down on them. They had fallen apart waiting for levity, waiting on others. Farrell didn’t want that and couldn’t afford it.
“Thanks, Dev, but I’d rather be in the back, all the same,” Farrell replied, throwing his duffel bag into the back seat beside Devine. He motioned to McCloskey standing next to him. “Victor, you go ahead. I’ll be all right.”
McCloskey closed the front passenger door beside him and Farrell thought that he’d better ask the question that had been burning him up inside since he spotted the men.
“Where’s Sonya?” he asked flatly.
Farrell looked at the back of McCloskey’s head in front of him. It flinched slightly, almost imperceptively, towards Devlin in the driver’s seat and then popped back into position, straight ahead. Farrell saw Devlin’s eyes moving in the rearview mirror, shift downwards, up to the left, then directly into the mirror to meet Farrell’s gaze. Devlin’s eyes were emotionless, blank and unreadable.
“Declan, she rang me this morning just as I was about to set off and pick her up, ye know. Said she couldn’t get out of work. Said she…”
“She’s there now?” Farrell enquired, cutting his friend off.
“Where?”
“At work.”
“Yeah, she’s in emergency all day today. When she rang me this morning she was already there, had been since 2 a.m. in the morning.”
“How is she?” Farrell asked.
“She’s all right,” Devlin said, looking over his shoulder at Farrell. “She’s tired, ye know, what with work and you…being away.”
Devlin paused momentarily before continuing, a look of concern stretching across his mien. “It’s been hard on her, all of this.”
Again, Farrell found it hard to read Devlin’s face. Farrell let the words sink in. Maybe Devlin was right. Maybe Farrell had been expecting too much of her to come and see him. Still, there was a butterfly hovering around in his stomach, had been for about six months and he wanted to put a net over it.
“2 a.m? She doesn’t do night-shifts, normally,” Farrell queried.
“Aye, I know, but she couldn’t get out of it,” Devlin repeated.
“What was it?”
“What was what, mucker?” Devlin smiled back at him, right hand on the wheel, his square jaw and long hair giving him the impression of an Italian lothario about to roar off into the sunset in his Lamborghini.
“What was the emergency she couldn’t get out of?”
“Emergency?” McCloskey repeated, looking back at Farrell, then at Devlin.
“Aye, emergency. At the hospital. I mean, it must have been something pretty big for them to have gotten her in overnight? She’s usually not on night rotation,” Farrell continued.
“Yeah,” Devlin answered, nodding his head with closed eyes as if the penny had finally dropped. “Fire. Pretty bad, out at that new estate.”
“Many people hurt?” Farrell asked, hoping that it hadn’t been too bad. He didn’t want to see Sonya when she was exhausted. He wanted everything to be just right.
“What did the radio say, Victor?” Devlin asked McCloskey, looking over at his large passenger, “…on the way down here? What was it, dozen or so burned, half a dozen badly? Something like that.”
“Jesus,” Farrell said, “must have been a huge fire.”
“No,” McCloskey butted in, sober as a judge, “just a large family.”
Farrell pushed the comment away. He asked, “Can we go to the hospital? I’d like to see her.”
Devlin started the ignition and turned around in his seat to look at Farrell.
“She asked for us not to go there, she’d be too busy what with the burns and all that,” Devlin replied. “She’s mortified Declan, that she can’t get out of there to see you straight away,” he added concernedly, “but she said she’d catch up with us at the bar when she gets off.”
“The bar?” Farrell asked, worried that he wasn’t in the mood to see a lot of people presently. He had a lot going through his mind.
“Yeah, The Black Bush,” Devlin answered with a smile. “Our old and only haunt. Like we said, there’re a lot of grateful people want to extend their thanks to you.”
“Right,” Farrell said. He was too tired to argue. He couldn’t go to the hospital, Sonya didn’t want him there and he’d probably upset her if he turned up there. And he couldn’t go home and just sleep, what he really wanted to do. It sounded like people were relying on him turning up, waiting on him. Waiting on him, for a change.
