Free The Convictions of John Delahunt by Andrew Hughes Page A

and showed it to me; just as I had done with Devereaux in the Castle.
    He said, ‘You’ll have to give me the blood money.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘The reward you got for shopping Seanie and Fergie. Give it to me.’
    ‘Why would I do that?’
    ‘Because a word about this to my friends, and your life will become very uncomfortable.’
    ‘I’m under the protection of the Castle.’
    He raised an eyebrow and looked around the quiet, dimly lit room. ‘You’re not at the moment.’
    I put my glass down on the mantel, and gripped it lightly by the rim. ‘Why don’t we split it,’ I said. ‘Ten pounds each.’
    ‘No. You’re in no position to bargain.’
    I was going to argue more, but he was right. It was my own fault for being spotted; a lesson to be learned.
    ‘I’ve spent some of it. I can only give you fifteen.’
    He frowned for a moment, but then nodded. ‘Fair enough. I’ll take it now.’
    I went to a low bookcase in the corner and took an academic volume from the bottom shelf. I leafed through it, retrieving two hidden banknotes of five and ten pounds. When I turned, the man was already on his feet. He plucked the money from my outstretched hand and put it in his breast pocket.
    ‘Thank you.’
    Then he seized my left wrist, turned me around and pushed me against the wall by the fireplace. He deliberately twisted my arm, before dragging it across my back towards my shoulder. His fingers laced through my hair, and pulled my head back so his mouth was just over my eye.
    ‘A month from today, I’ll return, and you’ll give me the same amount again.’ He pushed my head sharply against the wall for emphasis. ‘A month after that the same thing. I’ll be paying visits here so regular, we’ll soon be fast friends. If you breathe a word about this to anyone, I’ll tell all the dockers on Arran Quay what you’ve done, and then pieces of you would show up in every canal in the city.’
    He asked if I understood. I couldn’t move my head but whispered a yes. The pressure on my arm increased. He seemed to feel his way towards its breaking point, and I was aware of the ease with which he held me pinioned, the potential force he hardly used. Then he kicked my ankles, and threw me down beside the hearth. He picked up the book from the floor, flicked through the pages to ensure no other money was hidden, and then tossed it down beside me. ‘A month from today.’
    The corner of the hearthstone dug into my hip. Before me, three fire-irons lay aslant in their bow-legged stand. The handle of the poker was made of thick brass, moulded into the shape of a lion’s head. I reached across and gripped its blackened point.
    He was almost at the door when I got to my feet. The noise made him turn, but I was upon him in a few steps. I swung the moulded end of the poker in a high downward arc, and it struck the top of his head, glancing down to crack into his right shoulder. His features briefly froze in an odd expression, like the aftermath of a sneeze, then his knees hit the floor, and he slumped forward without a sound.
    I checked the handle of the poker to see if it was damaged; there wasn’t a scuff. Then I pulled the parlour door ajar. Nothing stirred on the landing above; there wasn’t a sound or glimmer of candlelight. I waited several seconds before closing the door again with a click.
    The man lay face down. His stubbled cheek was squashed flat, and I could hear him breathe raggedly through clenched teeth. I could have roused the household and sent for help, but the police wouldn’t have kept him for long. As soon as he was released, he would track me down again. Also, he could identify me as an informer to his coal-heaving friends at any time.
    I took up the fire-iron again and considered its weight. Just how much force would be necessary? I rehearsed a couple of swings to judge their likely impact; the shaft flashed and hummed through the air. Best to err on the side of caution, I decided, reasoning