Contents (48)
- PAST LIFE
- David Mark
- PART ONE
- PROLOGUE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- PART TWO
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
‘Who? Noticed what …?’
When they’re forty yards from the vehicle, McAvoy watches in horror as the rear lights flare into life. He hears the sound of an engine revving. The sudden squeal of tyres on a damp road.
‘No,’ says McAvoy, and pushes the coxswain to the ground, listening to a riot of curses as he tumbles into the wet grass.
McAvoy sprints forward as the vehicle shrieks backwards around the corner, smoke and steam swirling up from the exhaust and the threadbare rubber. His boots hammer down as he sprints, arms pumping like pistons, to the very rear of the vehicle. Lunges forward, his fingertips touching cold metal. Clatters forward, hitting the road hard. Scrabbles upwards just as the driver finds the right gear and lurches forward.
McAvoy throws himself forward, grabbing for the wing mirror. Feels his feet momentarily leave the ground. The window is partway open and through the space in the tinted glass he sees a face. Fifties. Swarthy. Dark hair and thick lips.
A thud: the crunch of metal, and then McAvoy is slamming back onto the road, rolling and tumbling on the wet tarmac, feeling the skin across his shoulders tear; thumping his head. He’s up again in moments. Stumbles to where the car has come to a stop, the bonnet wedged into the back of a parked Audi.
McAvoy doesn’t even think. Doesn’t slow his walk. Pulls the sleeve of his coat over his right hand and smashes his fist into the window with all the strength he can muster. The glass shatters. Skin tears as his fist carries in through into the car; jagged glass clawing at his skin. He feels nothing. Closes his hand around the shirt front of the driver and yanks him forward towards the shattered glass. His head smacks into the broken window. Glass falls like hard snow.
‘Where is he?’ hisses McAvoy, grabbing the driver through the open window, teeth locked, spit frothing. ‘Where’s my son?’
‘Gardai!’ screams the driver, through bloodied lips. ‘I’m a guard!’
‘I don’t give a fuck what you are!’ screams McAvoy, drawing back his bloodied hand.
‘A guard. A police officer! Please, I’m a police officer!’
McAvoy stops. Feels the strength leave him. Feels the blood upon his face. Watches the crimson trickles cascade down his arm and over his hands, dripping to the floor as if he were squeezing fruit.
‘You’re Gardai …’ he mumbles. Leaning against the car. ‘You were following me. You started to drive away …’
On the floor, the officer spits blood. Drags himself up. ‘I was sent to warn you,’ he says, groggily. ‘I’m Daragh Kincaid. I’m here to warn you that he’s coming.’
McAvoy closes his eyes. Shakes his head.
‘You’re too fucking late.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Pharaoh glances at the clock as she barrels through reception. It’s 11.04 a.m. She’s been awake for not far off eight hours. She can’t help thinking that she, and the world in general, would have been better served if she’d taken an extra sleeping pill and ignored the ringing phone.