Free A Thrust to the Vitals by Geraldine Evans Page B

he at last located the right caravan. Plunged into the total darkness that is night-time in the country, he fumbled with the key, which they had collected en route, and managed to open the caravan door.
    Mickey followed him, stumbling up the steps and adding his own blue curses to Rafferty’s.
    From behind him, Rafferty heard his brother muttering to himself  — ‘If this is the best you can do—’ The rest trailed off, presumably, as Mickey, again considering the alternative that Rafferty had so bluntly pointed out, thought better of finishing the sentence.
    Oh, wise little brother, Rafferty thought. He had begun to grin in perverse appreciation of their plight when he banged his nose on a cupboard. He swore again instead and decided he would, after all, comment on his brother’s base ingratitude.
    ‘Yes, actually, this is the best I can do. If you can do any better for yourself, feel free. What did you expect?’ he demanded of the shadowy contours, which were all he could see of his brother. ‘A top-notch hotel like the Elmhurst, smack in the centre of town and convenient for all amenities?
    ‘I suggest you get real, bro. Surely you’ve grasped by now that you need to lie low? This, unfortunately, is what lying low means, whether you like it or not.’
    The inescapable truth of this utterance must have suddenly struck Mickey with some force, for he fell silent and, feeling behind him in the gloom to ensure he didn’t land on his arse on the floor, he slumped heavily on one of the caravan’s side banquettes. With his head in his hands, he said, ‘God, I sincerely hope it is only for the few days you said.’
    So did Rafferty. Because Abra would be home by Sunday night and expecting him to have organised the romantic dinner he had promised her before she left for Dublin.
    Having finally plucked up the courage — with recourse to the Dutch stuff his brother had earlier so freely imbibed — Rafferty had proposed. Somewhat to his surprise, Abra had accepted. The girly weekend had been long-planned and un-getoutable-of, so, to make up for its interrupting their own celebrations, they had promised each other some quality time on Abra’s return. Rafferty had been deputed to find the time to get this celebratory quality time organised.
    Now, with this latest murder inquiry and the unwelcome complication of Mickey’s involvement, Rafferty knew he would be hard-pressed to honour that promise and keep both Abra sweet and his brother safe. Especially if, as seemed only too likely given the many distractions, he failed to promptly put a name to the real murderer.
    Maybe he would be able to find a restaurateur willing to provide them with a celebratory engagement meal at midnight? Their ‘Cinderella’ celebration, he could call it. Of course, Abra, being Abra and sharing more than a smidgeon of her cousin Llewellyn’s logic, would remind him that Cinders’ perfect evening ended at midnight, rather than began then.
    Rafferty felt a bout of hysterical laughter fighting to break free. But as he glanced again at his head-in-hands brother, the urge to laugh vanished as suddenly as it had come. He was beginning to feel that life had turned him into some kind of hydra-headed monster with all the heads striving to control the direction he took. He certainly felt he had no control over anything right now.
    The only thing he knew for sure was that each and every one of these heads was going to make increasingly unreasonable demands on him in the days and weeks to follow.
    In need of some light relief from the doubts that he would be able to rise to any of the challenges the fates had thrown before him, Rafferty eased his weary bones on to the banquette opposite where Mickey was slumped. And as his brother seemed to have nothing further to say on any subject, he returned to contemplating his Cinders evening with Abra. He supposed that, if Abra found fault with his logic, he could always do his Blarney-Stone spiel and