One Bad Turn Read online

  ‘You little bollix.’

  The customer might have been in the horrors, but he was agile and moved far faster than Flynn had been expecting, flinging his upper body across the counter and punching the young man on the nose. Half a second later Flynn leaned forward too and grabbed him by the arm, his other hand scrabbling in his back pocket for his card.

  ‘Hold on there—’

  ‘Get your hands off me, faggot!’

  The breath was just as bad as Flynn had been anticipating and he flinched as the man turned and roared at him. That split second was all it took and the customer’s second punch caught Flynn squarely in the stomach. He fell forward, winded, and his chin caught the wooden counter on the way down. Pain rocketed towards his brain as his teeth were jammed together and his ears rang with the force of the blow.

  Crouched on the floor now, he reached out one hand to steady himself but the customer, all of his pent-up rage now spilling out of him, lashed out with his foot straight into Flynn’s side.

  ‘You should have minded your own business.’

  Flynn was forced into a foetal position as the man kicked out again and again, grunting with the effort.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’

  Pain was coming from everywhere now, his jaw, his stomach, his side, but he had to act quickly or this lunatic could do him serious damage. Flynn had attended enough cases at the District Court to know the damage a kick to the head could cause, even accidentally. He drew in one sharp, painful breath then pushed up as hard as he could from the floor and delivered a chop to the back of his assailant’s left knee. The force of the blow wasn’t enough to topple the man, but it gave Flynn the second he needed to move the rest of his body off the floor, ignoring the shard of pain in his right side, and shove the man against the counter, grab his wrist, then pin his arm behind his back.

  Suddenly immobilized, the man turned his head and snarled at him,

  ‘I’ll get the guards on you, you little shit.’

  ‘I am the guards.’

  His breath coming in short, painful gasps, Flynn barked at the now immobile assistant behind the counter,

  ‘Ring Collins Street guards. Tell them Detective Philip Flynn wants back-up. Immediately.’

  *

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Me? Ah, yeah.’

  Flynn rested his arse gingerly on the windowsill and flexed his arms. Looking warily over Siobhán O’Doheny’s shoulder, he could see that a knot of onlookers had gathered around them, drawn to the scene by the blaring siren and the subsequent removal of the now remorseful customer. He was in the back seat of the squad car and Garda Rooney was waiting for O’Doheny to join them so they could transport him to Collins Street and encourage him to reflect on what he’d done.

  But she wasn’t ready to leave yet and took a closer look at Flynn.

  ‘Are you sure? You look a bit pale. You’ll get yourself checked out, anyway?’

  ‘I’m grand, Siobhán.’

  Flynn was irritated – he hated being fussed over. Just because I’m dating your brother doesn’t mean you get to be my mammy, he wanted to tell his colleague, but resisted the urge.

  She must have sensed what he was thinking anyway and gave a curt nod before stepping away.

  ‘Yeah, well, if you’re sure. Come in with us anyway. You’ll have to report the incident and—’

  ‘I know that.’

  Flynn took a deep breath, which caught in his throat as a sudden deep pain stabbed him in his right side. Siobhán had turned her head and didn’t notice. He waited a moment for the throbbing to subside, then attempted a quick smile.

  ‘I’ll nip home first, and change. I’ll follow ye in – I’ll be twenty minutes max. Okay?’

  The younger guard nodded towards the car where the drunk had slumped.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ll take a statement from your friend here in the meantime.’

  ‘Great stuff.’

  Flynn kept the smile fixed on his face as Siobhán walked to the car and drove away. Then, moving as carefully as he could, he levered himself away from the wall. Your man had some kick in him for a pisshead. Probably best to grab a couple of paracetamol before heading into the office . . .

  The phone in his pocket vibrated and Flynn pulled it out, and frowned. Superintendent Quigley – ringing on his personal phone, too. News travelled fast. He raised the handset to his ear, winced and lowered his head.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Flynn – I hear you found a bit of trouble this morning?’

  ‘Yes, sir. All under control now. I’m just on my way in to—’

  But Quigley hadn’t waited for a response and was still talking.

  ‘Very good, very good. Have you any idea where Boyle is?’

  ‘Sergeant Boyle, sir?’

  The ache in his side was getting worse and Flynn shifted from foot to foot in an attempt to get comfortable, eventually finding that if he leaned to the right the pain almost disappeared. It mustn’t be anything too serious, so.

  ‘Yes, Claire Boyle. How many Boyles do you know, Flynn?’

  ‘I think she’s on a day off, sir.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Quigley sounded halfway between hassled and annoyed and Flynn began to walk slowly down the road, shoving his finger into his ear to give his boss his full attention. It was an unusually warm day and the sun was beating on the back of his neck, sending a trickle of sweat down his back. As far as Flynn knew, the window in Quigley’s office at Collins Street had been jammed shut for months: his boss sounded overheated and stressed, never a good combination.

  Quigley sighed.

  ‘I need to talk to her urgently. There’s a file missing from the Eugene Cannon case. Well, I say missing, but I think it’s on her desk somewhere. She was the last one with it. Her drawers are locked, though, and I’ve the place torn apart looking for it . . .’

  Shallow breaths, rather than deep ones, helped control the pain, Flynn found. That, and concentrating on what his boss was asking him to do.

  ‘I’ll call her mobile.’

  ‘Do you not think I’ve tried that?’

  The bellow made his ear buzz and Flynn winced again. Definitely an air-conditioning issue, he reckoned. He could just see the super now, tie knot pushed down and top shirt button open, sweat beading on his forehead and his face getting redder as the paperwork piled up about him.

  ‘I’ve tried her home phone, and her mobile. Nothing. So get her for me, will you? It’s urgent. Good man.’

  He hung up before Flynn could say another word.

  Flynn checked his watch. He still had a bit of time before his shift was due to start. He needed to go in and make a statement, but the super wasn’t a man who liked to be kept waiting, as far as Flynn was aware. He didn’t know him very well, and had on occasion found himself somewhat jealous of the easy relationship his partner Claire Boyle had with their boss. Boyle and Quigley chatted away like equals almost, sharing jokes that Flynn never seemed to be quite in on. This might be a decent way to get on his good side. Flynn checked his watch again and breathed through the ache in his side. Couple of Panadol, he’d be grand. Better still, he was pretty sure Diarmaid had bought Nurofen Extra the last time he’d stayed over, claiming it was the only thing to touch a red wine hangover. He’d swallow a couple, then track down Boyle and get her to call the super before he went in to start his shift. That sounded like the best plan. There’d be brownie points in it for sure.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Heather, 1989

  One of the gobshites stumbled and fell right across her path, his plastic cup of doctored orange juice spilling all over the already sticky floor. Startled, Heather was forced to grab his shirt to keep herself upright. They swayed together for a moment and she could smell him, a cloying mixture of fresh sweat, stale beer, Lynx body spray and
, underneath it all, a faint reminder of the washing powder his mammy had used before ironing his shirt that morning. Heather pushed him away, then looked at him searchingly. Yep, she’d probably ironed his jocks as well.

  ‘Gobshite.’

  The boy’s eyes widened beneath the long floppy fringe.

  ‘Ah, here. No need to be like that now. It was an accident!’

  Was that a wink? Heather looked closer, halfway between horrified and amused. Was this Neanderthal trying to flirt with her?

  His friend leaned across him, and nudged her.

  ‘Look at him! He’s after fallin’ for ya.’

  Heather shuddered. Was this 1989 or 1959? At least in New York . . . She shut away the thought. ‘In New York’ was a path she’d learned not to go down too often, not until she’d come up with an escape plan from this shithole, anyway. Instead, Heather shoved the eejit to one side and continued her march towards the door, a sea of overexcited and mostly drunk teenagers parting before her. Gobshite, she thought, rolling the expletive around her mind. Gobshite. Bad language was one area in which Ireland held the upper hand over the US. It had feck all else going for it, though.

  ‘Now, boys and girlzzz . . .’ the DJ’s voice rose over the din, ‘. . . it’s time to slow it down a little.’

  Abandon ship!

  Heather’s mouth twitched as she imagined the little people in her head, those guys out of the comic she and her mom used to read when she was a kid, leaping for the lifeboats and urging her feet to get the hell out of the disco before the slow set began. But her smile faded before it had time to establish itself. People around here already thought she was a weirdo: the last thing she needed was to be caught laughing at her own internal jokes. She couldn’t risk it, not even here, at the epicentre of uncool that was the St Ferdia’s weekly disco. St Ferdia’s. What a dive. There was a guy she was supposed to meet in town later on, but he’d told her there was no point heading into the city centre until eleven at the earliest and, unless she fancied an evening in front of the TV listening to her Dad bitch about her mother, she’d had to get out of the house before then. But this was fast becoming an inferior alternative. St Ferdia’s wasn’t even a real nightclub, for Christ’s sake, the low lighting and single disco ball doing nothing to hide its real identity: that of a rugby club’s function room. There was even a basketball hoop hanging from one wall. And none of the girls, not even the ones whose faces seemed vaguely familiar from the school she’d attended last time she’d lived in Ireland, made any effort to say hello to her, preferring instead to form impenetrable circles around their handbags. Heather had no idea how any interested guy would go about breaking through the cordon, although, judging by the number of couples grappling in corners, it must have been possible to separate some from the herd.

  ‘Here – do you wanna get off with me friend?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  The fella, a skinny bloke in a blinding white shirt and matching sneakers – or runners, as she was learning to call them again – didn’t even look embarrassed, just shrugged his shoulders and disappeared back into the crowd. Finally feeling a breath of air on her face Heather made one more push forward and raised her head to find herself standing by the entrance kiosk – in reality a school table with a margarine tub of tickets on it – just inside the front door.

  ‘All a bit too exciting for you, is it?’

  The older bouncer was standing stock still, doing the staring-into-space-but-still-keeping-an-eye-on-everything trick they must teach in nightclub school. The younger guy, who had looked bored as she approached, broke ranks and grinned at her.

  His was the friendliest face she’d seen all night and, despite herself, Heather allowed herself a flicker of a smile in return.

  ‘Something like that, yeah.’

  ‘I doubt that now.’

  He smiled again and she took a step backwards until she was leaning against the wall. What was he – mid-twenties? At college, maybe. Not a school kid anyway, nothing like the boys in here. Nice broad shoulders. No moustache and (she took a quick look downwards) no white socks. She could do worse.

  Suddenly the older man leaned forward. The younger guy tore his gaze from Heather and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘You’re only a slut!’

  Pushing herself further into the wall, Heather glanced back into the body of the disco. The shout had come from just a few feet away, and if she squinted, she could see the figure of a boy kissing a dark-haired girl just outside the Ladies. Her arms were draped around his neck. His were clasped loosely around her waist, and one hand had disappeared under the folds of her baggy white blouse.

  Beside them, a blonde girl in an electric blue jumper was screaming in the brunette’s ear.

  ‘I said you’re a bleedin’ slut!’

  ‘Hang on now, ladies . . .’

  The older bouncer might have had the belly of a pregnant woman, but he could move quickly when he needed to and ran towards the trio. The younger guy gave Heather an apologetic grin and walked after him.

  ‘What do you even think you’re doing?’

  The dark-haired girl raised her head slowly from the boy’s shoulder and looked at her accuser. Or tried to. Even from several feet away, Heather could see she wasted. If she hadn’t been holding onto the boy, she might not have been able to stand upright at all. The boy smirked at the blonde.

  ‘We weren’t doing anything . . .’

  It was so patently untrue that he didn’t finish the sentence.

  Further inflamed, the blonde grabbed the brunette’s blouse.

  ‘Come over here, ya little hoor!’

  ‘That’s enough now.’

  The older bouncer touched the blonde’s shoulder.

  ‘We’ll deal with this, okay?’

  He nodded at the brunette.

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on, love, but it looks like— Ah, here!’

  Detached from her companion, the brunette stumbled and would have fallen flat on her face if he hadn’t caught her under the arms.

  ‘Jerry!’

  The younger bouncer darted forward and together they began to half carry, half drag the girl towards the door. She raised her head and, as a shard of light from the disco ball fell across her face, Heather recognized her. She walked forward and tapped the older bouncer’s arm.

  ‘I’ll look after her.’

  Startled, the man loosened his grip and the girl fell forward onto Heather’s shoulder, the scent of Elnett hairspray and Exclamation perfume pumping off her in waves.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  The voice was clouded by vodka and misery. Heather put her arm around Eileen Delaney’s waist and whispered in her ear, ‘Just shut up, okay?’

  The bouncer looked at Heather, not without sympathy.

  ‘Sorry, love, there’s a protocol. We have to ring their parents if we think they’ve been drinking and—’

  ‘And you! You’re a complete waste of space so you are!’

  The blonde, having clearly decided that Eileen was too drunk to bother with, had turned her attention to her boyfriend and was thumping him on the chest between words.

  ‘A bleedin’ [thump] waste [thump] of effing [thump] space.’ Slap.The older bouncer ran back to the warring duo. The younger guy glanced at Heather and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Do you really know her?’

  Heather gave him what she hoped was a reassuring grin.

  ‘Seriously. She’s . . .’ Inspiration struck and she turned up the volume on her US accent. ‘She’s, like, my cousin? My Irish cousin – I’m just here on holidays. My aunt is collecting us later. You don’t need to ring her. I’ll make sure she gets home.’

  The guy frowned.

  ‘I don’t know, we . . .’

  The body in Heather’s arms gave a violent shudder and a look of panic crossed
Eileen’s previously blank face.

  Heather pulled her towards the door.

  ‘She’s going to puke. You’d better let us out or the place will be destroyed.’

  A quick look towards the bucket and mop perched behind the desk, together with the knowledge that no cleaner was on duty later, made up the young bouncer’s mind. Walking forward, he lifted the safety bar on the door and pushed the girls out, shooting a glance over his shoulder at his workmate, who was still trying to detach a bright blue jumper from a striped shirt.

  ‘Go on, then. But don’t tell him I let you out. You legged it, okay? When I wasn’t looking?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Throwing a goodbye over her shoulder, Heather dragged Eileen out into the warm night.

  ‘Just keep walking, okay?’

  Eileen Delaney gulped, suddenly lucid.

  ‘I don’t feel well.’

  ‘I know. Just hang on two minutes, okay?’

  Later, the car park would be filled with parents on collection duty, but right now it was almost empty and Heather dragged Eileen across it almost at a run, heading for a wooded area on the other side. Panting, she kept them moving until they’d climbed a grass verge, then stopped abruptly in front of a large bush. Eileen coughed and, with surprising neatness, threw up on top of it. From the other side came a rustle, and a yelp.

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘Ah, it’s your own fault for hiding in there.’

  Heather bent over, catching her breath, as the couple appeared from behind the bushes, she tucking her shirt back into her jeans, he cupping his hands over the front of his trousers in a vain attempt to hide what rose beneath.

  Eileen groaned and leaned forward again, coughing. The girl peered at her sympathetically, then turned to Heather.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’ll be fine.’

  Heather put her hand protectively on Eileen’s back.

  ‘She’s not used to it, that’s all. She didn’t get you, did she?’

  ‘No.’ The girl grinned and grabbed her boyfriend’s hand. ‘She missed us. Come on, you!’ She winked at Heather. ‘We were on our way back in anyhow. They’ll be playing Sisters of Mercy as soon as the slow set’s over. Mind yourself now.’