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The smell of charred wood and cordite and ferrous blood filled his nose. He inhaled deeply, his heart pounding against his ribs. The beats came so fast now, as though time itself had sped up, careening him, and so many others, toward an inevitable and destructive outcome.
‘Tell me!’ he screamed, so hard that the last word sounded choked, and he was sure he tasted his own blood at the back of his throat, the lining scratched raw from the force of the demand.
His finger twitched on the trigger, but the small gesture of pulling, firing, would come with not-so-small repercussions.
A line crossed. Mental turmoil.
Again.
‘Tell me, or you know what happens!’
But the man in front of him, crumpled on the floor in his dirty and torn clothes, blood streaming through his wavy, long black hair, said nothing.
‘Come on, do it,’ came the voice in Peake’s ear. ‘We don’t have time. Do it now.’
‘Tell me or she’s dead,’ Peake said to the man on the floor, not sounding as angry or even as urgent now. More… pleading. ‘Just tell me.’
‘You have no choice! You have to do it.’
He pushed the barrel of the gun more firmly against the woman’s skull.
‘Please!’ screeched the bleeding man.
But it was too little, too late.
Peake pulled the trigger.
A feisty wind blasted down Essex Street, straight into Simon Peake’s face as he strode along, looking for the bar. On a warm November day, relatively speaking, he’d left his apartment on the Upper West Side with only a thin jacket, in bright sunshine. This far down Manhattan he felt as though he’d entered another climate altogether and he shivered as he walked.
He’d not been to these streets before. Hadn’t been to the bar – O’Hare’s. An Irish joint. Like pretty much every other bar in New York City. Except this one really did belong to an Irish family. People who’d actually been born on the Emerald Isle, rather than those who had a great-great-grandparent who had a distant relative who may or may not have been to Limerick once.
He spotted the paint-peeling sign for the bar over the other side of the road and made a beeline for the entrance. He opened the door and stepped inside and saw everything he expected. Clovers. Irish tricolors. Dark wood fittings. Guinness on tap. A bearded and tattooed barman. A few drinkers dotted about, but the place was far from teeming on a Wednesday night.
He settled on a stool at the bar.
‘Can I help you?’ the barman said in a gruff voice – Irish accent – that matched his appearance. One of the family? No.
Peake ordered a beer and a whiskey chaser. He left cash on the bar and downed the whiskey before looking around the room. He’d never spoken to Sean Lafferty before, but he’d recognize him from the pictures he’d seen online.
No sign of him.
‘You looking for someone?’ the barman asked, one eyebrow raised as he wiped clean a glass that looked pretty damn dry already.
‘Sean. Is he coming tonight?’
‘Sean? Sean who?’
The guy glared and Peake found himself caught in two minds.
Then the barman laughed – overly heartily – and a couple of other patrons looked over.
‘Not seen him tonight. Or any of the boys.’
And with that the guy moved off to serve someone else. Peake worked through his beer and ordered another, then another, then another as he waited, watching with keen interest anyone who came in from the street.
‘You drinking alone?’ the woman who’d walked up to the spot next to him asked.
He’d seen her come over, watched her in the mirror behind the bottles of spirits. Tight jeans, heels, a thin sweatshirt that showed off her figure. Curly dark brown hair. A dusting of freckles on her nose. She’d come into the bar alone half an hour before. Had sat alone with a glass of wine as she played on her phone
room. ‘You?’
‘Needed to relax. Let me guess. Date, but she didn’t show.’
‘No, not a date. Work.’
She glanced at the bar-top where his empty shot glass sat next to the half-finished beer in his hand. At least the barman had cleared away his several empties.
‘Long day, huh?’ she said.
‘Something like that.’
‘So do you want some company?’
He looked across the space again. Checked his watch. Gone 10 p.m. now. Sean should have been here at 8. Peake had sat on his own, drinking on his own, for more than two hours. If the guy walked through the doors now, he’d probably be too drunk anyway.
Peake would come back another night to find him.
‘Why not,’ he said.
She beamed him a smile before brushing the loose hair from her face with a deft swish. She sat down on the stool next to him and the barman spotted her waiting and came over to her. He knew her. Peake could tell by the relaxed, eager-to-please look in his eyes.
‘What are you drinking?’ the woman asked Peake.
‘Same again,’ Peake said to the barman before downing what was left of the beer in front of him. She asked for a beer too but no chaser, and the barman got to work.
‘I’ll get these,’ Peake said when she reached for her purse.
She gave him a cheeky smile but said nothing as she relented. A common trick of hers?
‘I’m Katie,’ she said, holding out her hand.
‘Simon.’
‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ she said, holding his eye as she took a sip from her drink.
Peake downed his whiskey then sank a third of his beer.
‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re new to the area?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Kind of?’
‘I don’t live on the Lower East.’
‘I do.’
She said that with a certain directness.
‘Not far from here, actually.’
‘So you’re a regular then?’ he asked.
‘Regular enough. It’s not like I’m an alcoholic.’ She laughed awkwardly at that.
‘No. But you do come to the bar on a Wednesday night, on your own, to drink.’
‘Long day. Right?’
‘Right.’
They both chuckled at that, though he didn’t really know why.
The opening door caught his attention, and Peake turned his head to look at the three young men walking in. Confident. Arrogant. One hit another on the shoulder – camaraderie, or machismo or bonding or something – and the two of them guffawed like juveniles but the guy at the front had a sterner look as he eyeballed the other customers.
Was that…
No. Not Sean.
‘You know them?’ Katie asked.
his beer. ‘You want another?’
‘Sure.’
Another chaser down the hatch and Peake’s head started to spin. He didn’t really care.
He stood up, grabbing for his pocket, and somehow made a hash of it. He knocked the stool over and then stumbled as he picked it back up. He pulled out his cigarettes and a lighter.
‘Not in here, buddy,’ the barman said with a glower.
‘I know that,’ Peake said. He turned to Katie. ‘You want one?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
‘I’ll be back in five.’
‘I’ll keep you company. Al, watch our things.’
The barman nodded and Katie followed Peake to the street. She took her beer with her. Peake hadn’t bothered. He lit up and took a long drag as he rested his head against the outside wall.
‘I can’t remember the last time I met anyone who smokes,’ she said, with a curious look on her face.
He didn’t say anything as he sucked in again, the deep inhale clearing some of the alcohol fog away.
‘But why do you?’ she asked.
He looked down at her.
‘Smoke?’ He shrugged. ‘Habit.’
‘You always have?’
‘For long enough.’
‘You know it’ll kill you.’
‘Maybe that’s the idea.’
She held his eye, and he could tell by the confusion on her face that she didn’t know how to take the comment.
‘So you don’t care if you die?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘There’re better ways to kill yourself,’ she said.
‘Are we really talking about suicide?’
She smiled, though the look carried a strangely sinister edge.
‘Not first date material?’ she asked.
‘So this is a date now?’
‘Why not?’ she said, putting her hand onto his and gently stroking his fingers.
‘So how would you do it?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘Kill yourself.’
The smile faded. But he didn’t sense any offense, or disgust or discomfort – only deep thought.
‘Something quick. Maybe jump in front of a train.’
‘What about the driver? The poor people who have to clean up the mess?’
‘Bullet to the brain then,’ she suggested.
‘You have a gun?’
‘Do you?’
‘Anyway, again, it’s messy.’
‘Pills and alcohol.’
Peake paused. ‘Too… absolute.’
‘Absolute?’
cide? Yes. Multiple times. Perhaps he simply didn’t have the guts to do it. Or perhaps he was holding out for something.
No. More that suicide felt like cheating. The easy way out.
Smoking?
‘Maybe the cigarettes will kill me,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know when. It’s not in my control. I’m happy to leave my fate to fate. If I die… when I die… it’ll be because I deserve it.’
She didn’t say anything to that. Just stared at him with intrigue. Like a therapist would with an eccentric patient. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t run a mile away from him already.
‘It’d be a waste,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You. Killing yourself. It’d be a waste. You’re…’
‘What?’
‘Interesting.’
He waited for more. None came.
‘That’s it?’ he said.
‘That’s it.’
‘Christ. I may as well have another smoke now.’
Other than the group of three men, who’d remained in the booth in the far corner at closing time, Peake and Katie were the final customers to leave. By that point Peake had had several too many and Katie held on to his arm as they stepped out into the blustery and chilly night, and Peake wasn’t sure if it was her helping to keep him walking steady or the other way around.
‘Can you walk me home?’ Katie asked, craning her neck to peer up at him. Hunger in her eyes?
‘You live nearby?’
She’d said so earlier, hadn’t she? Peake couldn’t really remember with the alcohol swimming in his brain.
‘Not far enough for the subway. Not close enough that I feel safe to walk alone.’
He looked along the street. Quiet. Wednesday night. Like many parts of Manhattan, the area was a mix of clashing cultures and demographics. O’Hare’s bar sat on a wide avenue with endless rows of cafes, restaurants, bars, independent shops, all now closed up for the night. Within a street or two there were traditional brownstones rented by young professionals and families, but also more modern high-rise condos slowly, slowly squeezing out the older projects, one gentrified building at a time. But take a wrong turn and…
‘Yeah, I’ll walk you.’
They set off arm in arm. Not far at all. Not even half a mile until they stopped by the stoop to a brownstone on a tree-lined street that had cars crammed either side of cracked tarmac.
‘This is me,’ she said, unlinking her arm and standing in front of him.
He looked beyond her to the building. A nice-looking place, really. Certainly expensive-looking.
‘You want to… have a coffee?’
Peake couldn’t help himself. He burst out laughing and after a moment with a doubtful look on her face, Katie did too.
‘Then why me?’ Peake said.
‘Why not?’
He checked his watch again. Gone midnight. A waste of a night, in one sense. In another…
‘You have coffee?’ he asked.
‘Actually, no,’ she said. ‘But I have vodka.’
‘Then let’s go,’ he said with a smile.
Katie did have a bottle of vodka. Grey Goose, to be precise. Relatively expensive, though in truth Peake wasn’t sure he could tell the difference between that and cheaper brands. Not that they drank much before they ended up in the king-sized bed in a room that, much like the rest of her apartment, was spacious and tastefully decorated.
They didn’t sleep much. Peake awoke from a semi-slumber as the early morning rays poked through the gap between the hastily closed curtains. Katie had nestled up to him at some point in the night, her hand on his chest. He watched her for a few moments. She looked so… peaceful. Content. His eyes rested on her hand.
He shuffled up a bit in the bed. Slowly reached out and took her wrist gently in his fingers and turned her arm over.
He huffed quietly. He’d not noticed before. The scars. He’d been too focused on… other parts of her. But her wrist was heavily marked. Several lines of raised, lumpy flesh. Not recent. He sighed and held her a little more closely. They’d not talked much about her last night. He wanted to know more, but…
He carefully slipped from underneath her and rolled away and grabbed his boxers from the floor before he stepped quietly to the en suite. He gazed at himself in the mirror for a moment before he went to the toilet. As he washed his hands he stared at his reflection again, focusing on his eyes, a challenge of some sort. Why did he look so… disappointed?
‘Proud of yourself?’ he asked.
He got no answer.
He moved back out into the bedroom. Katie was awake, the covers pulled up to her neck.
‘Do you always talk to yourself in the bathroom?’ she asked with a cheeky look on her face.
‘Not always.’
He sat down on the edge of the bed. He’d expected a hangover, but he felt fine. Actually, despite the sullen look on his face, he felt more than fine, especially with the thoughts, and the smells and the taste of last night still so fresh.
He reached for his jeans and took out his cigarettes and a lighter.
‘Do it in here if you want,’ Katie said as Peake stood, intending on moving to the balcony.
‘You don’t mind? In your bedroom?’
She shrugged. ‘Normally… I don’t know, it seems… very you.’
What did that mean?
Sitting back on the bed, he lit up and took a long inhale which sent a hit of calmness up into his head.
She didn’t say anything, just watched him with fascination until Peake finished the smoke and grabbed his jeans and his shirt.
