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Back The Last Drop of Blood
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. INTRODUCINGKATIE MAGUIRE
  3. ALSO BY GRAHAM MASTERTON
  4. Title Page
  5. Copyright
  6. Epigraph
  7. Contents
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. About the Author
  60. An Invitation from the Publisher

Katie undressed. She went into the bathroom to take a shower and when she came back she put on her stripy pyjamas and climbed into bed. It was 1:47 a.m. Kyna was waiting for her and gave her a smile.

‘I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,’ Katie told her. ‘I’m aching for the rest, though, I can tell you.’

They switched off their bedside lamps and then they turned towards each other and held each other close. Katie closed her eyes and felt that nothing could be more soothing than Kyna’s steady breathing against her neck.

‘I love you, Katie Maguire,’ Kyna whispered.

‘I love you, too, Kyna Ní Nuallán,’ Katie replied.

She was quite sure that she would stay awake all night, but while she was thinking about Owen Dineen’s story in the Irish Sun and how she was going to reply to it, she dropped off into a deep and seamless sleep, and when she opened her eyes again the sun was shining behind the curtains, and Kyna was still breathing softly against her neck.

9

‘Have you seen the paper?’ asked Barry Riordan, with his mouth full, as Gavin and Feargal came into the kitchen. He was sitting eating scrambled eggs with a fork in his right hand and a lighted cigarette in his left.

‘Sure, like,’ said Gavin, taking the Racing Post out of his coat pocket and holding it up. ‘That fecking Emerald City fell over again. I swear to God that horse has three legs shorter than the other.’

‘I don’t mean that paper, you bulb.’ Barry jerked his head towards the folded-up copy of the Irish Sun lying on the table next to a wet collapsible umbrella and a six-pack of Satzenbrau.

Feargal picked up the paper and read the headline, moving his lips. Then he passed it to Gavin. ‘I don’t have me specs on me.’

‘You didn’t have your fecking specs on you when you shot Billy Hagerty, either, did you, boy?’ said Barry. ‘You could have seen that Tommy O’Flynn was right behind him.’

‘I told you, Barry. Billy was first out the door and I didn’t have the time to fooster around waiting for your man.’

‘Well, okay, like I said to you yesterday, I’m not that vexed about it. Billy Hagerty was a fecking waste of space no matter which way you looked at him, and it was him I wanted out the way first. I bet when he was born the midwife smacked his ma.’

‘Any road, from what it says here, we don’t be having too much to sweat about,’ said Gavin, dropping the paper back on the table. ‘It sounds like the cops in Cork couldn’t find their own mebs if they was wearing see-through grundies.’