Seventy Times Seven (7 page)

‘Is there nothing stronger?’ asked Danny.

‘PG Tips,’ she replied.

‘I’m sorry, Angel. I feel like I was run over by a truck and got my sleeve caught on the bumper. You know what I mean?’

Angela pursed her lips. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut.’

‘Will you help me get dressed, Angel?’ Angela wasn’t sure if he was deliberately calling her Angel or if he had made a genuine mistake. She thought about correcting him, but if she was being honest, she liked it.

‘Not if you’re thinking of getting up,’ she replied.

‘Where d’you live now? Are you still in Clanrye Avenue?’ asked Danny.

‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘Send you a thank-you card.’

‘You were well brought up.’

‘I like to say thanks.’

‘Just say it then. You don’t need to be sending me anything.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Danny. ‘Thank you for helping me out.’

‘Are you going to drink this or will I use it on the plants?’

Danny raised his head as far as he could and took a sip of water. The cold, flat liquid tasted good.

‘See if you look out the window, is there a white Transit van across the street?’ he asked.

Angela put the glass down and crossed to the window. She pulled the curtain aside and looked out. There was nothing parked directly opposite the house, but about a hundred yards to the left she could see a white van. Angela turned as she heard Danny painfully manoeuvring himself into a more upright position: his battered body was a pitiful sight, sitting there slumped on the edge of the bed.

‘There’s a white van a little way up the road, doesn’t look like there’s anyone in it,’ she said.

‘I need you to do me one more favour before you go, Angel,’ said Danny. ‘Have you time to go buy me some Easter eggs?’

Finn sat down heavily on the faded, brown-leather, button-fronted sofa and savoured every mouthful of the cold beer. The painkillers had started to kick in and the dull nagging ache – where the bullet had grazed his shoulder – was beginning to ease. He wanted to lay his head down on one of the large cotton cushions flopped over either end of the couch and close his eyes, but he knew he’d have to drink a lot more beer and swallow the rest of the painkillers to have any hope of switching off the static buzzing inside his head. At least for now the volume was turned down.

Red Headed Stranger
was spinning at 33 rpm on the battered old Panasonic sitting on the floor just in front of the window. Finn was trying to focus on the words of ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain’ crackling gently through the stereo speakers. But his eyes were getting heavy. His head dropped forward as he lost the struggle to stay conscious. The sudden jolt made him sit bolt upright, staring round the room – for a brief second – wondering where he was.

Marie was standing next to the bedroom door.

‘Too much excitement for you?’ She was barefoot, wearing a pair of worn-out sweatpants and a loose oversized T-shirt that looked like a guy’s. ‘I’ve fallen asleep listening to Willie Nelson a few times too, but never in a stranger’s house.’

‘It’s not Willie Nelson, it’s the painkillers: they’re pretty strong,’ replied Finn slowly.

She’d washed off all her make-up and her wet hair hung loosely about her face. Standing there framed in the doorway she appeared small and vulnerable: younger-looking, but somehow more attractive.

The smell of Patchouli-scented-soap and freshly laundered clothes drifted towards Finn and reminded him how badly he needed to get cleaned up.

‘I don’t know whether to thank you or kick your ass,’ said Marie as she crossed to the counter and refilled her glass from a jug of whiskey sour sitting inside the fridge door. ‘I can’t figure out if you saved my life today, or if it’s because of you McHales is now closed for refurbishment and I’ve got a horror movie playing in my head every time I close my eyes.’

Trying to act casual now: putting on a good show. But Finn could tell she was still uneasy, maybe even scared. The door to her bedroom had been locked and bolted when she’d gone off to get showered. But here she was now, with a couple of sours in her, playing it cool.

‘Apparently you’ve done the community-at-large a big favour by shooting that guy. So far the cops have got you down as the reluctant hero,’ she continued. ‘The guy killed for a living, if that doesn’t sound like a contradiction. Had a rap sheet it’d take you a couple of days to read through. Culo’s his real name: Cola to his friends.’ She looked at Finn to see if there was any reaction to the name, but Finn just sat there drinking his beer, looking sleepy.

‘They’re trying to figure out if it was you he was there to “deliver the message to”, or the guy in the suit who took the short-haul flight onto the sidewalk. Asshole worked for the bank across the street; was in McHales with his mistress who also worked in the bank as his secretary. That’s not a scenario you come across very often, is it? Honestly! If I was a guy, and I wanted to have an affair, the last person in the world I’d pick would be my secretary. Too obvious! Anyway, the cops are working on the wife to see if she’d found out about the affair and arranged to have her husband hit.’

Marie was heading back to Finn with a fresh beer. Ever the professional barmaid: never leave them with an empty glass.

‘I’ll pour if you don’t mind,’ said Finn, reaching up to take the bottle from her.

‘I told the cops, I was going to ask the banker guy to leave anyway: he was upsetting the other customers with all his gold Rolex bullshit and financial blah, blah. Although I did add I’d have preferred it if he’d used the front door.’

‘What else did you tell them?’

This stopped Marie for a second. She looked straight at Finn: serious now.

‘I told them you never paid for your drink.’

‘That all?’

‘Pretty much . . . they really want to believe the banker’s wife did it. It’d make their lives a lot easier.’

‘What do you believe?’

‘I saw the wife being brought into the station. If she was
acting
upset she should be given an Oscar: didn’t look like crocodile tears to me. My hunch is this all has something to do with you. The FBI are hardly likely to pay much attention to a bank employee who’s screwing around.’

There she was, still coming at him. Smiling as she said the next bit. ‘Looked to me like the “asshole” was aiming at you when he pulled the trigger. D’you know what “Culo” means in Italian? “Ass”! Cops were laughing their heads off when they found out . . . Not exactly street, is it? A hit man called “Ass”. His partner’s name is Vincent Lee Croll. Cops put him down as Vincent Lee Hole. Even I smiled at that . . . Have you come here to “pop” me, seeing as I’m the main witness?’ Playing with him now the third sour was kicking in. ‘I have to warn you I’m allergic to pain: brings me out in tears,’ she continued, ‘so if you could “pop” me in the least painful way you know, that’d be great.’ She couldn’t help the flirtatious grin, adding, ‘If you know what I mean.’

Finn didn’t speak. He just stared at his beer.

A serious look crossed Marie’s face.

‘Have you come to pop me?’

‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘I thought a Thai takeaway first though, sort of a last supper, y’know?’

‘Be warned, there’s a cop car outside. If anything goes wrong I’ve to flash the lights three times . . . Can you imagine? You’re being attacked, the last thing you’re going to be looking for is a goddamn light switch.’ She smirked to herself. ‘When I was in the shower there I thought, “I’ll flash it
four
times” just to see what they do.’

She took another hit of her sour. ‘I was also standing there waiting for the screechy music to start and the big knife to slash through the shower curtain.’

‘How d’you know it won’t?’ said Finn, going for the deadpan look.

She saw through him straight away.

‘I don’t have a shower curtain. This food smells great, d’you mind if I help myself?’

Finn nodded. ‘Sure. D’you want me to taste it first; be on the safe side? It’d be very easy to disguise the taste of poison in a red duck curry.’

Marie looked from the food up to Finn. ‘Good idea. Are we expecting company?’ she asked as she moved over and sat down cross-legged on the floor just in front of him.

‘I wasn’t sure what you eat, so I got a bit of everything.’

‘Must have cost a fortune.’

‘Everything I’ve got,’ said Finn.

Marie didn’t have to look at him to know he wasn’t joking.

‘How’d you find out where I live?’

‘I waited in a burger bar across from the police station until they brought you out, then followed you home.’

‘How d’you get through the gates here?’

‘Drove in right behind you.’

‘That easy, huh?’

Marie emptied the brown paper bag’s contents onto the coffee table and tutted.

‘D’you mind eating it from the cartons? The dishes are all packed away.’

‘I’m fine . . . I’m not really that hungry,’ replied Finn.

Marie looked at him, then down at the food.

‘Maybe you
should
have the first mouthful.’

Finn saw her watching as he leant forward and ate a few of the noodles. It crossed his mind to grab his throat and fall to the floor, writhing in agony, but he decided against it. ‘Mmm, tasty! Maybe I will have some,’ he said.

As Marie spooned some rice from one carton into another Finn looked around the apartment. There were brown cardboard packing boxes everywhere. Some with old newspaper and bubble-wrap spilling out, but most still taped shut. On one side of the room there was a wall of boxes, five wide by four high. Aside from the loose packing material the place was clean and tidy, if a little sparse. The only other furniture was the beaten-up leather sofa he was sitting on, a matching metal-framed lounger and an old television that looked like it had seen better days.

‘Moving in or out?’ he asked.

‘In,’ she replied, leaning over to pick up her drink from the floor, bending just enough that Finn could see down the open neck of her T-shirt to the cup of her bare breasts. ‘I left my husband about eighteen months ago and moved in here . . . haven’t quite got round to unpacking yet. Actually he left me. Died of a heart attack at forty-two.’

‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Finn.

‘Don’t get your hanky out just yet. If he hadn’t died of natural causes, I’d have killed the asshole anyway. Smoked so much dope he thought the
National Enquirer
was the
New York Times
. Couldn’t understand why none of it was reported on NBC. And – hand on heart – I couldn’t tell you why I married him in the first place. He had no money, no personality and he was a lousy lay . . . his dick used to get hard once a year and it was usually when I was out at the shops or fast asleep. Trained as a chef, but preferred to stay home and get high. Used to rub my tits like he was kneading dough. You can tell I miss him.’

There was an awkward silence.

Finn and Marie caught each other’s look. It was over in an instant, but it was enough to give Finn the feeling.

‘Thai is just the thing after a gunfight,’ said Marie, breaking the spell. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘Yeah. I used to prefer Chinese, but I hardly ever eat it now. Keeps me awake at night,’ replied Finn.

‘Let’s face it, when you’ve blown someone all over a wall with a shotgun you need to get your sleep,’ she said, without looking at him.

Finn didn’t reply.

He was trying to gauge where she was coming from now, but he was struggling to stay sharp: a combination of tiredness, painkillers and alcohol.

He was enjoying her company. Finn could imagine things working out between them‚ but not now. He needed to find out what had been said at the police station and leave her to get on with her life.

She leant forward to put the glass back on the floor and there they were again. Finn could see a line where her bikini top must have been and the sun had browned her skin.

As she sat up she caught him looking and raised an eyebrow.

‘I flick that switch three times and this place will be swarming with cops.’

‘You keep bending over like that I’m going to flick the switch myself,’ said Finn, standing up. ‘Mind if I get myself another beer?’

‘Help yourself,’ replied Marie.

Finn was struggling to keep his balance.

‘What else d’you do for a living?’ he asked, as he opened the fridge door and grabbed a bottle of Sierra Nevada.

‘What d’you mean? I’m a barmaid,’ said Marie.

‘You don’t do anything else? You don’t look like a barmaid,’ replied Finn, crossing back to the sofa.

‘What do barmaids look like?’ replied Marie.

‘Not like you,’ said Finn. ‘You always worked in bars?’

‘Feels like it,’ said Marie.

‘Okay. I’ll come at it from a different angle . . . what did you want to do when you left school?’

‘I wanted to be a lawyer and save the poor.’

‘From what,’ asked Finn?

‘The law,’ replied Marie. ‘What did you want to be when you grew up . . . a marksman?’

Finn cracked a smile. ‘I’ve never killed a man yet I could sit down and reason with.’

As soon as he said it he realised he’d gone too far. Marie’s gaze dropped to the floor and the atmosphere in the room suddenly turned: as if a storm cloud had passed in front of the sun.

‘Every now and then you say something that scares the shit out of me,’ said Marie. ‘It’s all a bit too casual, you know. We’re sitting here like we meet for Thai every Friday night . . . but we don’t . . . I’m actually . . .’ She didn’t finish the sentence. Finn could see her eyes filling as she struggled to hold back the tears. ‘Y’know what I mean. It may look like I’m okay with everything that’s happened, but I’ve only ever seen this sort of shit on the telly, where it’s sanitised: far enough away from reality to make it harmless. But when you see it for real, your mind . . . it’s so confusing because your mind is still trying to figure out when the ad breaks are coming and everything can return to normal, but – at the same time – it knows that’s not going to happen.’ Marie paused for a second and looked up at Finn, trying to smile. ‘I don’t even usually use words like “shit”.’

The tears were now streaming down her cheeks. ‘It’s not me,’ she continued. ‘Suddenly I feel like I’m living somebody else’s life.’

Finn didn’t know what to say. She was right. Killing that asshole had come too easily to him. He didn’t feel any remorse: in fact, he didn’t feel anything. It
was
all too casual; too easy. This girl didn’t belong in his world.

‘Do you think if I’d asked him nicely he’d have sat down and talked it out?’ said Finn eventually. ‘I had no option. He wasn’t aiming at my shoulder . . . he was “missing” my head.’

Marie wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

‘So it
was
you he was there for,’ she said.