Free Scalpel by Paul Carson

massive brain damage when his skull opened like a coconut as it hit the concrete. And all the time, as the children screamed and roared and the neighbours fought with the Gardai, his mother just sat and wept, wiping her eyes with that filthy apron. Her manner was resigned, as if she had known some day it would all come to this.
    Just like Christ.
    Tommy Malone had stared at the painting intently. His gaze kept returning to the face of the betrayed Christ, the eyes closed, the brow furrowed, lips slightly open.
    'Why didn't ye run?' he'd muttered. 'Just open yer eyes and run. Like me Da.'
    He'd looked up at the face of Judas and then at the face of Christ and then at the face of the soldiers.
    'We'll I'm fuckin' tellin' ye this,' the words had been whispered. 'They won't crucify me. I'm tellin' ye that. They won't crucify me. There's no way I'm gonna let the rozzers get hold of me again. They won't crucify me.'
    He'd suddenly noticed someone standing close to him and looked up. A nice American tourist was admiring the painting as well, an elderly, blue-rinse set woman.
    'Isn't it just a magnificent painting?' she'd drawled.
    'Would ye ever fuck off?' replied the art critic.
     
     
    Betty Nolan bustled in, shaking the drips from her umbrella. She was slightly taller than Malone with bleached blonde hair sitting on her head like a beehive. A good looking woman in her day she was slowly going to seed and the dress she was wearing under her heavy overcoat bulged at the front and sides. She sat down and took a quick sip of Malone's whiskey. 'Jaysus it would freeze ye out there.'
    Malone smiled and ordered a whiskey and soda from the young bar hand who had followed her into the snug. As soon as he was satisfied they couldn't be overheard Malone turned to Betty, motioning that the conversation was to be kept low.
    'D'ye still do the odd bit of cleanin' down at Harry O'Brien's headquarters?'
    Betty's eyes narrowed, full of suspicion. 'Why d'ye wanna know?'
    Malone avoided the question. 'Are ye fed up cleanin' and scrapin'?'
    The bar hand interrupted with the drink and Malone dropped five pound coins in his outstretched hand, waving away the few pence change offered. As soon as they were alone again, Malone continued.
    'How'd ye like to make a million, and I'm not talkin' about winnin' the lotto?'
    Betty took a sip of her whiskey and then added a little soda. 'What are ye plannin', Tommy?'
    'I'll tell ye in a minute. D'ye still do the odd bit of cleanin' down at Harry O'Brien's place. Would ye answer me?'
    'I do. Twice a week, Thursdays and Fridays, before the offices open. Why? Waddye wanna know abou' Harry O'Brien?' She sipped at her drink, never once taking her eyes from Malone.
    'Would ye like to make a million and fuck off outa the country to somewhere nice and sunny and live it up for a change?' Malone drained the last of his Guinness, wiping the froth from his moustache. 'No more cleanin' and scrapin'.'
    Betty said nothing, her eyes still fixed on Malone. She knocked the whiskey and soda back in one gulp, shuddering slightly as she felt it hit her stomach. 'Waddye plannin', Tommy?'
    Malone stood up and opened the snug door to make sure no one was listening outside. He waved away the young bar hand moving towards him. 'In a minute, I'll call ye in a minute.' Satisfied, he closed the snug door and sat down, reached across and took one of Betty's hands in his own. She looked down and then back at him. 'Waddye plannin', Tommy,' she whispered uncertainly.
     
     
     
    11
    8.32 pm
     
     
    Dean Lynch drove from his Ballsbridge flat and parked in the multistorey car park at the Ilac centre, only a five minute walk from the hospital. It was a bitterly cold night with few people on the streets. Those who were out huddled in doorways sheltering against the wind as they waited for buses or taxis to take them home. Dublin's Central Maternity Hospital was located in Whitfield Square, a once grand square situated only five hundred yards from