Nothing Sacred Page 7

  8

  WHILE I HAD been enduring my father’s company, Gabe had been at home alone, drinking a beer, channel-surfing, glad to have his prosthetic leg off; stretched out on the sofa he was as content as he could be outside of a warzone. He crushed his beer can, laughing derisively at the war film he was watching, when a bullet drilled through his living room window, shattering it and passing his ear with a zip like a mosquito heard in the dark.

  Regardless of the beer he’d had and the unlikeliness of a shooting in his leafy neighbourhood, he rolled off the sofa, reattached his leg and crawled to the wall next to the shattered window. Outside a car was idling, red-tinged exhaust fumes rising thickly into the night through the car’s brake lights. Another shot came in, chipped wood off his window frame. Gabe ducked back, saw another bullet bore through the brick of his front wall, then tumble with a lazy subsonic buzz through his front room.

  Gabe dragged himself underneath the window, took a look from the other side. A car pulled away from the kerb, slowly, as if to taunt him, show its impunity.

  But almost two decades in the army had taught Gabe to keep his head under fire. Nor was he a man who could allow such insolence to go unanswered. Without a second’s reflection, he got to his feet, picked up his keys, left his house, started his car and headed off in pursuit.

  Gabe caught up with the car along Main Road, came up behind it doing seventy, headlights on full. His beams picked out heads, two in front, two back. One turned, saw Gabe approach. The car picked up speed and by the time they hit Gallows Corner roundabout they were pushing ninety, both cars up on two wheels. Gabe saw headlights through his side window, other drivers taking evasive action, slamming to a halt to avoid them as they barrelled through. The car in front nearly lost it exiting the roundabout, the back end spinning out, only recovered by colliding with a stationary van that bounced it back on course in a shower of sparks.

  They hit the A12 and Gabe got up close behind the car, so close he could see the colour of the men’s hair in his headlights, see the amazed expression on one of the men’s face as he looked behind him. He got close enough to nudge the other car’s bumper, saw the same man point a gun at him, no more than two metres away. Up ahead the lights were red, a busy intersection. Cars were streaming across and Gabe eased off. The men in front veered left, looking for a gap. They got halfway through before they were broadsided by a flatbed truck. The car lifted into the air, spun, steam pluming from its grille. Gabe pulled up, opened his door. All cars on the intersection had stopped. There was no movement from the destroyed car. He approached it, passed a car, saw a puzzled child’s face pressed to the window. A bullet hit the front tyre of the car, a hiss of air escaping.

  Civilian casualties, another thing Gabe had witnessed in the army. He backed off, back to his car, waited. Slowly the two front doors of the destroyed car opened, two men got out. Both with guns. One covered Gabe while another tried both rear doors, got one open. There must have been twenty, thirty cars watching, their beams picking out the men. None of the cars moving, as if they were at a chaotic drive-in watching the main feature. The man who had opened the rear door helped another man out. All three regrouped in front of their car, facing Gabe. By now he had retreated behind his car, protected by its length.

  One man was still in the car. Didn’t seem to concern the three standing in front. One stayed where he was. The two others ran to another car. They held their guns to both front windows, passenger and driver’s, elbows raised high, guns pointing down. Mouths open, shouting urgent, unequivocal orders. The doors opened and a man and woman stepped out. The man had his hands up. The woman was in a short dress, flapping her hands, stepped backwards, went down on a stiletto heel. Both men got in and the man by the wrecked car ran over, got into the back. They backed up, gunned the engine, peeled away, snort of exhaust and rear lights disappearing into the night.

  But a shootout at a major intersection, though traumatic for most present, was a relatively trivial event for Gabe. He got back into his car, negotiated his way through the stationary cars, and headed back in pursuit.

  The car the men had stolen was fast and it took Gabe over three minutes to catch up. He saw them from a distance, hit 130 to get close. He tailgated them, looking for a way past, but they jinked across lanes, blocking him. He came alongside and they veered into him, sound of metal on metal, a shudder going through his car, tyres looking for grip. He braked, tucked back behind. The car in front took a sudden left, its back again sliding out. Gabe did not have time to follow, overshot their exit. He slammed on the handbrake, overcooked it and put his car in a spin. Got it headed back the way he’d come. Wrong way on a dual carriageway. Drove the two hundred metres back to the exit the men had taken, turned into it, lit up by the headlights of an approaching lorry, heard its horn Doppler past his rear bumper.

  But by the time Gabe had found the car it was abandoned, three doors still open and lights still on. It was in an industrial estate, parked in front of a megastore selling cut-price furniture. Gabe stopped, opened his door, leaned on its frame, then hit it, again and again and again.

  The police had come for him three hours later; his car had been picked up by eleven cameras during his pursuit, his plate run in seconds. He had called me two hours later, and I had arrived at the station at a little after five in the morning.

  Sergeant Hicklin stopped the tape machine, sat back in his chair, smiled widely. I had to smother a smile back. My relationship with the police had never been a comfortable one; my father had instilled an abiding suspicion of them, and more recently I had been a victim of police corruption that a missing finger made hard to forget. Hicklin was old school and a man I respected, even trusted. Regardless, he was getting nothing from me.

  ‘Right, Mr McBride,’ he said. ‘Off the record now. Stop pissing me about. You know exactly who they were.’

  ‘My client has already told you, on the record,’ I said. ‘A full and detailed account. So how about you stop pissing about and either charge him, for what I have no idea, or let him go.’

  ‘For speeding, careless driving, dangerous driving, for…’ Sergeant Hicklin seemed to run out of words. ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘If you were going to do it, you’d have done it,’ I said. ‘We both know that.’

  Sergeant Hicklin sighed, looked upwards as if there he might find some help. We were in an interview room, Hicklin one side of a desk, me and Gabe the other. Gabe was slouched in his chair; he seemed bored, uninterested now he’d finished his account. A uniformed policeman stood in the corner. He was young and was following it all with his eyes. Hicklin sighed again, yawned.

  ‘Want to hear the rest?’ Hicklin said. ‘

  There’s a rest?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, there’s a rest.’

  The man left in the car at the intersection was in hospital with a broken femur and various internal complications, Sergeant Hicklin told us. He wasn’t talking, although that was mostly because so far he’d refused to regain consciousness. Now that the interview was over, Sergeant Hicklin was not so officious. There was something in his eyes, a light that I could not help but enjoy.

  The other three abandoned their vehicle and made off on foot, running through the streets behind the A12. They came out under the white glare of road lights on a main road and saw a McDonald’s drive-through where a couple in a car were picking up burgers. The men surrounded the car, opened the doors and when the driver put up a fight, they hit him repeatedly with the butt of a handgun while his girlfriend screamed, one hand still clenched on the bag holding her burgers, which, she said, there wasn’t any way she was giving to them. Car, yes. Burgers, no chance.

  Hicklin laughed softly as he recounted this detail, raised an eyebrow, invited a response. I looked at Gabe and shook my head. Hicklin knew what he was doing, was looking for Gabe to say something, give himself away now the pressure was off. But I was Gabe’s lawyer, and that wasn’t about to happen.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘we’re f
ree to go.’

  ‘I know where you live,’ Hicklin said. ‘When I need you.’

  I nodded at Gabe, who stood up, smiled at Hicklin, but did not say anything.

  ‘Please,’ Hicklin said, putting out a hand. The uniformed policeman opened the door and led us to the front desk where Gabe signed for his possessions and we walked out together into the dark morning.

  *

  ‘Want to tell me,’ I said gently, ‘what the hell all that was about?’

  We were in my car and so far Gabe had said nothing; he had his head against the window and might as well have been asleep.

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘If I’m honest.’

  ‘I’m your lawyer,’ I said. ‘No, forget that. I’m your friend.’

  ‘Listen, Danny. Thanks for coming down. But that’s all I needed. This… Just leave it.’

  ‘You had a gun, right?’

  ‘Danny…’

  ‘Just tell me. What would you have done? If you’d found them?’

  Gabe sighed. ‘I didn’t though, did I? So please. Leave it.’

  ‘I know when someone’s into something,’ I say. ‘New car, money, a bullet through your window. This isn’t you.’

  ‘You’ve no idea.’

  ‘You can’t expect me not to care.’

  ‘I expect you to respect my wishes.’

  There. Done. The Gabe effect. No sentiment, no emotion. As I drove I wondered if, at heart, he had always been like that, or whether the army had instilled this core of granite. I guessed it didn’t matter. The result was the same; there was no point reasoning with the man. I did not doubt that he knew who had shot out his front window; had no doubt that it was linked to his money, to the man at the tennis court, to his new-found sense of purpose. Once again I wondered about what it could be, but could only fear the worst; that Gabe, once so honest and decent, was putting his military experience to bad use. I looked across at him, his lean face, his closed eyes, and could not help but notice the way he arranged his legs, the cost of his injury even when in repose. Could I blame him for whatever it was he was doing? Would I be any different, given the same circumstances?

  We arrived at his house and Gabe pulled himself up and out, stood up slowly. He leaned into the car, said, ‘Thanks, Danny. I owe you one.’

  I nodded, didn’t say anything. Drove away, leaving him alone outside his house, sky beginning to lighten behind him. What else could I do?

  9

  FOR THE NEXT few days a cold wind blew and with it, nothing new. Through my office windows I watched people walk past, harassed women resentfully shoving buggies, jostling, laughing children avoiding school and, later, tired returning office workers, eyes shuttered and jaws set against the wind, jackets held resentfully closed at the neck. I did not hear any more from Vick and, in truth, I was glad. It does me little credit, but I did not know what further part I could play in her story and I tried to persuade myself that no news was probably good news, that I had done all that I could, that there was nothing more I could offer her.

  I spent the days catching up on casework and fending calls from Hicklin, who called to tell me that he was not happy with Gabe’s statement, that the man in hospital had still not regained consciousness, and that if he died, Gabe could be liable for manslaughter at best. I listened to him patiently, told him that unless he had anything more, he should stop wasting my time. Told him that Gabe had a window missing, that a bullet had been dug out of his living room wall. That he had over fifty witnesses who saw a flatbed truck total the injured man’s car, while Gabe was stopped twenty metres away. I rearranged pens as I listened to him, squared piles of paper. Stifled yawns.

  My casework was no more rewarding. I dutifully chased Aatif’s visa application, desultorily contested speeding tickets, worked on the eviction of a tenant who had been running an unlicensed tattoo parlour from a three-bed semi owned by a client. The man was not only facing eviction but several other criminal proceedings, related to three cases of septicaemia and one complaint brought by an aggrieved lady who had had a dolphin tattooed across her back. She had intended the dolphin to be spiritual but felt that it looked more like a salmon or pike and was seeking recompense for physical and emotional trauma. I had seen the photos of the tattoo in dispute and could not help but sympathise.

  But the work was trivial and my heart not in it. After two days of this monotony, I began to crave something more. At times like these I would call Gabe, arrange a match, take my boredom and frustration out on court. But the wind was too strong and between us there was something else, some turbulence that I did not understand and could not seem to broach.

  I went to the gym, lifted weights until my shoulders ached and the muscles along the backs of my arms and calves trembled and spasmed. However hard I pushed myself, though, at the back of my mind I could not shake the horror of Vick’s situation, of how close she had come to death. I could not help but think of Ryan, wonder what his role in it all was; what, if anything, it had to do with his gambling. Whether I cared to admit it or not, Vick’s story, the thought of her children in the custody of an indifferent authority, had got under my skin. It was not something I could work out, nor was it something I could sweat out.

  That night I drove to my house and Maria was there waiting for me. In my life I had never before had the luxury of somebody who thought for me, considered my feelings, who negotiated my moods so that I did not have to. But Maria had noticed that I was not myself, had sensed my dissatisfaction. As I walked through the door she gently prevented me from taking off my coat, shook me roughly by my chin and asked me if I had any money on me.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tonight, my miserable little friend, we are out.’

  Maria had a technique for picking a winning greyhound, watching them as they paraded before the race and putting everything on any dog she saw relieving itself. If no dog did, she sat the race out. If two urinated, she went both ways. So far she had won over £150 and her technique was looking sound; Gabe and I had stopped mocking her for it, were beginning to consider getting in on the action. The man on the table next to ours already had, handing ten £50 notes to the girl who took the bets, peeling them off a stack of notes six inches high. She came back with his winnings wearing a nervous look and I doubted whether she had ever held that much money in her life before.

  We were in the restaurant overlooking the track, watching through huge glass windows high up. The track was lit by floodlights, and the spectators and trainers and bookies on the ground looked like actors on a stage set, the night sky black above them. Although it was a weeknight, the dogs always had an atmosphere of carnival, the drink and spectacle of the greyhounds and possibility of winning money creating a feeling of disconnection from the mundane world of rules beyond the stadium. Even Gabe seemed relaxed, enjoying himself, arms spread out on the banquette as he watched the racing below. Whatever he’d got himself into, he was doing a good job of putting it aside this evening.

  The next runners were being shown off beneath us, each dog wearing a differently patterned jacket, which corresponded to the odds for each dog flashed up on TV screens in the restaurant. Maria was watching them intently and I watched her, looked at her grave eyes and slightly parted lips, and sitting next to her I felt as if no man was ever luckier.

  ‘There he goes,’ said Gabe as one of the dogs relieved itself.

  ‘She,’ said Maria. ‘She’s a bitch.’

  ‘Sixty to one and she hasn’t won a race all season,’ said Gabe sceptically.

  ‘Such little faith,’ said Maria. The girl who took the bets was at our table and Maria handed her £50, got a slip of paper with her bet on. Gabe shook his head at the girl and I gave her ten, told her to put it on the favourite.

  ‘Square,’ said Maria. ‘Just going by the form.’

  ‘No imagination,’ she said. ‘My dog will prevail.’

  ‘Prevail,’ I said.

  ‘It’s an interesting word.’

  ‘It’s wh
at will happen.’

  The dogs were walked back to the starting cages, which had been wheeled across the track, and the noise in the restaurant subsided slightly as we waited for the start of the race. The mechanised rabbit was flying around the track on the opposite side to the dogs, getting closer and closer, and as it passed the starting cages they sprang open and the dogs came running out, bunching into a group on the inside of the track, a blur of colours and legs and dipping heads. The restaurant exploded into noise and an over-weight man in an untucked shirt and red tie stood up and repeatedly screamed, ‘Go on the six doggie.’ The starting cages were wheeled away and the dogs flashed beneath us for their first lap; they were so fast I could not tell which dog was in the lead. Maria was gripping the edge of our table and leaning forward towards the windows. The dogs were now on the far side of the track and I could see that Maria’s dog was at the front and that mine was nowhere. They came around the final bend and Maria’s dog was well ahead. It won by three lengths and as it crossed the line, Maria screamed in happiness and clapped her hands. She turned to me, her eyes glowing with emphatic triumph, and she grabbed my cheeks with each hand in delight, gave them a shake.

  ‘Christ sake,’ said Gabe.

  ‘I win,’ said Maria and she stuck her tongue out at Gabe, who looked at her in feigned disgust.

  The man on the table next to us got up and walked towards us, said ‘Sorry’ to me and, without asking her permission, kissed Maria on the cheek.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘That bitch just bought me a fucking Merc.’

  But my feeling of goodwill was not to last long. I had been trying to ignore them, trying to concentrate on the evening and Maria and Gabe and the good time we were supposed to be having. But two men had been watching us from the bar and by the sixth race I could no longer tolerate it; their gaze was a direct provocation and I could no more ignore it than I could fly. Gabe had noticed them too and he looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and I shook my head. I could handle this myself.