pulls back, her eyes searching Ructions’ face. ‘I’ve fallen in love with you, James.’ She points a finger at him. ‘But you don’t own me. Nobody owns me. And I don’t give in to threats. I said I’d help you to rob this bank and I will. But I’m doing so with my eyes wide open.’
‘I’d never—’
‘Let me finish,’ Eleanor says. ‘At the start you were just a bit of fun, and I was flattered by the attention you paid me, but things have moved on from then. I’ve moved on. You’ve helped me feel alive again. I said I’ve fallen in love with you and I have. If you don’t feel the same way about me—’
Ructions leans over, draws Eleanor to him and kisses her. There is no hiding the passion as his tongue searches out hers. When they pull back, Ructions stares at Eleanor, his face inches from hers. ‘You want me to say—’
‘I want you to be honest with me. Nothing else.’
He plants another kiss on her lips, a light kiss, a kiss so intimate that it sweeps away all Eleanor’s nagging doubts.
Ructions breaks off. ‘I love you.’ He flops back in his seat. ‘Holy Christ! Did I just tell you I loved you?’
‘Yes, you did,’ Eleanor says jubilantly, her eyes dancing. ‘You did – and you meant it!’
Ructions closes his eyes. Good God! What am I doing? Am I only churning out the words to keep this woman sweet because I can’t empty the National Bank of Ireland without her help? Or do I really love her? Do I? Yeah, I fucking do! Christ! Ructions O’Hare, how the fuck did you ever get yourself into this mess?
Eleanor reaches for her handbag, takes out her make-up bag and reapplies lipstick. Her lips don’t need a fresh coat, but she has to be doing something. She puts away the bag. ‘Why don’t we get out of here, James? Start afresh. Go to London, wherever. I’ve got money. We can—’
Ructions puts his finger to her lips. ‘After,’ he murmurs. ‘When this is over, we can go wherever we want.’
Eleanor’s eyes search his face. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Every word of it.’
‘Do you know what? I believe you.’
‘Mr O’Hare has got out of Mrs Proctor’s car and returned to his own car,’ the man with the video camera says. His phone rings. ‘Oh, hello,’ he says, still recording. ‘Don’t worry on that score; they haven’t spotted me.’ As Ructions drives off, he shuts down the recorder and concentrates on the phone call. ‘There’s no doubt, Tiny; the evidence is overwhelming.’
‘What is the purpose of your visit to Ireland, sir?’ the Irish customs official asks as he examines Serge Mercier’s passport.
‘To see if your golf courses are as good as they say they are, Monsieur. Are they?’
‘Oh, certainly,’ the customs official says, handing Serge back his passport. ‘Where do you hope to play?’
‘My friend tells me, er … Port … Portmarnook?’
‘Portmarnock, sir.’
‘Portmarnook—’
‘No, sir, Portmarn … ock.’
‘Portmarn … ock.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Pardonnez-moi.’
‘That’s okay, sir. It’s a fabulous course. You’ll enjoy it. The fourteenth and fifteenth holes are amongst the best in the world.’
‘How nice.’
‘Enjoy your visit, sir.’
FIVE
Ructions and Panzer sit in the hot-food section of a service station on the Belfast–Dublin motorway, their heads almost touching. Panzer kicks Ructions under the table as he looks over Ructions’ shoulder.
‘Who is it?’ Ructions asks.
‘Tiny Murdoch, Colm Coleman and two heavies.’
‘What are they doing?’
‘For fuck sake,’ Panzer says, ‘they’ve seen us. They’re coming down.’
Robert ‘Tiny’ Murdoch is six feet six inches tall and has the build of a professional wrestler. He is also a member of the Provisional IRA’s general headquarters staff. With the signing of the Good Friday Agreement in 1998, the IRA has disavowed armed struggle as a means of achieving its aim of uniting Ireland. This convinces some political commentators that the Provisional IRA has been neutered, but Ructions, Panzer and the criminal underclass know differently.
Murdoch sits down next to Panzer, while Coleman slips in beside Ructions. The two heavies take seats at a nearby table.
A middle-aged lady, with tied-back greying hair and glasses, enters the eating area and slides into a seat several tables away from the heavies. She opens her handbag and takes out her purse, but not before she presses a button which activates a pinhead surveillance camera in the side of her handbag.
‘What about youse, lads?’ Tiny Murdoch says, as his huge JCB fingers scoop up some of Panzer’s fries.
‘Sound, Tiny,’ Panzer says, looking relaxed. ‘Help yourself to those fries, why don’t you? I hear they’re very good.’
‘That’s very civilised of you, Panzer,’ Murdoch replies as he gathers up the rest of the fries before pulling Panzer’s tray towards him. ‘Jesus, Panzer, you haven’t half lost the weight.’
‘I’m cutting down on the fast food, Tiny,’ Panzer says.
Murdoch guffaws. ‘A good idea.’
When Colm Coleman reaches towards Ructions’ fries, Ructions’ lean hand and long fingers grab his wrist. Coleman tries to pull away, but Ructions’ grip is too strong.
‘I told you, Colm, didn’t I?’ Murdoch says. ‘Look at him. A fuckin’ Rottweiler. He’d put a bullet in the back of your head for a main course and one in mine for dessert.’
Ructions releases Coleman’s wrist. ‘Be my guest,’ he says, gesturing with his hand.
‘Be your guest?’ Coleman says insolently, rubbing his wrist. ‘You’ll be lucky if you don’t end up being my guest.’
Words from the grave echo in Ructions’ brain, advice from The Devil: Never let your enemies see your anger.
Barely able to speak after shoving Panzer’s cheeseburger into his mouth, Murdoch mumbles, ‘Have youse any moves on?’
‘Nah,’ Panzer replies. ‘I’m telling you, Tiny, I’ve never seen it so tight. Have you ever seen it this tight?’
Murdoch finishes off Panzer’s cheeseburger and wipes his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘I enjoyed that.’
