“What do you care?”
“I’m the nosy type. Why, is it classified?”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I’m taking a course to be a legal secretary. Is that all right with you, yeah?”
I said, “It’s great. Well done.”
“Thanks. Do I look bothered what you think of me?”
“Like I told you, I cared about your ma, back in the day. I like knowing she’s got a daughter making her proud and looking after her. Now let’s see you keep up the good work and bring her this bleeding telly.”
I flipped open the boot. Isabelle moved around to the back of the car-keeping her distance, in case I was planning to push her in there and sell her into slavery-and had a look. “ ’S not bad,” she said.
“It’s the pinnacle of modern technology. Do you want me to bring it to your place, or do you want to get a mate to give you a hand?”
Isabelle said, “We don’t want it. What bit of that are you not getting?”
“Look,” I said. “This yoke cost me good money. It’s not robbed, it doesn’t have anthrax on it and the government can’t watch you through the screen. So what’s the problem here? Is it just the cop cooties?”
Isabelle looked at me like she wondered how I managed to put on my boxers right way round. She said, “You grassed up your brother.”
And there we all were. I had been the big dumb sucker all over again, thinking it might not turn into public knowledge: if Shay had kept his mouth shut there was always the local ESP network, and if that had had an off day there had been nothing to stop Scorcher, in one of the follow-up interviews, from dropping just one tiny little hint. The Tierneys would happily have taken a telly that had fallen off the back of a lorry-probably they would have taken one off Deco the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, if he decided he owed them for whatever reason-but they wanted nothing to do with the likes of me. Even if I had felt like defending myself, to Isabelle Tierney or to the fascinated watchers or to every living soul in the Liberties, it would never have made one drop of difference. I could have put Shay in intensive care, maybe even in Glasnevin cemetery, and spent the next few weeks collecting approving nods and pats on the back; but nothing he had done was a good enough excuse for squealing on your own brother.
Isabelle glanced round, making sure there were people near and ready to come to the rescue, before she said-nice and loud, so those same people could hear her-“Take your telly and shove it up your hole.”
She jumped back, quick and agile as a cat, in case I went for her. Then she gave me the finger to make sure no one missed the message, spun on her spike heel and stalked off down Hallows Lane. I watched while she found her keys, vanished into the hive of old brick and lace curtains and watching eyes, and slammed the door behind her.
The snow started that evening. I had left the telly at the top of Hallows Lane for Deco’s next client to steal, taken the car back home and started walking; I was down by Kilmainham Gaol when the first rush came tumbling to meet me, great perfect silent flakes. Once it started, it kept on coming. It was gone almost as soon as it touched the ground, but Dublin can go years without even that much, and outside James’s Hospital it had turned a big gang of students giddy: they were having a snowball war, scraping handfuls off cars stopped at the lights and hiding behind innocent bystanders, red-nosed and laughing, not giving a fuck about the outraged suits huffing and flouncing on their way home from work. Later, couples got romantic on it, tucking their hands in each other’s pockets, leaning together and tilting their heads back to watch the flakes whirl down. Even later, drunks picked their way home from the pubs with triple-extra-special care.
It was somewhere deep inside the night when I wound up at the top of Faithful Place. All the lights were out, just one Star of Bethlehem twinkling in Sallie Hearne’s front window. I stood in the shadows where I had stood to wait for Rosie, digging my hands into my pockets and watching the wind sweep graceful arcs of snowflakes through the yellow circle of lamplight. The Place looked cozy and peaceful as a Christmas card, tucked in for the winter, dreaming of sleigh bells and hot cocoa. On all the street there wasn’t a sound, only the shush of snow being blown against walls and the faraway notes of church bells ringing some quarter hour.
A light glimmered in the front room of Number 3, and the curtains slid open: Matt Daly, in his pajamas, dark against the faint glow of a table lamp. He leaned his hands on the windowsill and watched the snowflakes falling on cobblestones for a long time. Then his shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath, and he pulled the curtains closed. After a moment the light clicked out.
Even without him watching, I couldn’t make myself take that step into the Place. I went over the end wall, into the garden of Number 16.
