Free In the Morning I'll Be Gone by Adrian McKinty Page A

hanging out of her mouth and she was already lighting another in anticipation of the first one dying.
    “They haven’t lifted him, have they? Is he all right?” she asked.
    “We haven’t lifted him. He’s still on the run,” I said.
    Fiona’s eyes narrowed.
    “Is that you? Sean Duffy?”
    “It’s me. And this is Detective Constable Randall.”
    “Fucksake. Sean fucking Duffy! Coming round here asking about Dermot,” Fiona said, practically spitting the words from her mouth.
    “Is that wee Sean Duffy?” Mrs. McCann asked in a more welcoming tone, before adding, “Would you like a dish of tea?”
    “I wouldn’t say no, if it’s no trouble, Mrs. McCann,” I told her.
    “Ach, it’s nay bother. Have a seat. Have a seat. What about you, love, tea?”
    Kate shook her head. “No thank you,” she replied.
    We moved aside a stack of slim poetry books and took a seat on a cushion-less sofa.
    Fiona turned off the iron, stubbed the first cigarette out in a full Rothmans ashtray, walked across the room with the fresh one, and sat opposite us on an upturned plastic delivery box that served as a living-room table.
    “I heard you joined the police. Couldn’t believe it. How do you sleep at night?” she asked.
    I’d been asked this question so many times I had a prepared set of responses with ascending levels of sarcasm (depending on my contempt for the interrogator), but this was not the time or place for those. I ignored the query and asked: “How come you’re living here? What happened to your house on Creggy Terrace? That was a lovely place.”
    It was too. Light filled, airy, five bedrooms . . .
    “Ach! They burned us out!” Fiona explained.
    “Who?”
    “Who knows? UVF, INLA, UDA . . . what does it matter? The house is long gone.”
    “Was this after Dermot went inside?”
    “Of course it was! Do youse think they’d have had the nerve to touch us with Dermot still out!” Mrs. McCann said, coming back with the tea and coconut buns she had clearly made herself. They looked on the ancient side but it would be impolite not to take one.
    “How did you end up in the peelers?“ Fiona asked.
    “I suppose there just wasn’t enough excitement in my life.”
    “I’m surprised you’re still alive. They’ve got a bounty on Catholic peelers, don’t they?”
    “They do indeed.”
    I took a bite of the coconut nasty. All I could taste was baking soda and treacle. I swallowed some tea to get it down. That too was vile. Maybe the pair of them were trying to earn that bounty right now.
    “So does Orla live here too?” I enquired.
    “Is that what it said in your wee intelligence reports?” Fiona asked with a cackle.
    I nodded. “That’s exactly what it said. It said that the three of you were sharing this place.”
    “She’s moved out,” Mrs. McCann said, sighing.
    “Don’t tell him where, Ma, it would be collaboration!” Fiona hissed.
    “I’ll tell him! I’ll tell anybody that wants to know. Orla’s mitched off with Poppy Devlin, so she has. One of his wee Shanty hoors now! High as a kite, so she is. We are scundered! Can’t put our heads out the door for the shame of it!”
    I was shocked, and there was a leaden silence while I digested this information. Dermot McCann’s sister was whoring for some drug-dealing pimp called Poppy Devlin? Did Dermot have no currency left at all in this town?
    Christ Almighty.
    Maybe Dermot didn’t care what his family was up to, or maybe the old IRA operators were all being driven out by a new generation of drug dealers flush with cash who weren’t interested in politics or “the struggle.”
    “Who is this Poppy Devlin?” I asked.
    “What are you doing here anyway?” Fiona asked.
    I showed her my warrant card. “I’m RUC Special Branch. I’m looking for Dermot. I’d like him to turn himself in.”
    Fiona laughed without any sign of mirth. “You’re a good one, you are, Sean Duffy.”
    “I’d like him to turn himself in before the Brits find him