RUAIRÍ
Ihave been at the makeshift headquarters not too far from the Donnelly estate for an hour.
My shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, the fabric cut by a blade of light that sneaks in through the kitchen window where the tape has peeled.
I pace the length of the room—ten steps from the table to the sink, eleven if I count the hop to avoid the loose floorboard near the radiator.
The first thirty minutes I spend checking the perimeter, not because I need to but because I need to do something with my hands.
I run the tip of a key along every seam of the window frames.
I lift each edge of the carpet, searching for microphones, trackers, the seeds of tomorrow's betrayal.
The only thing I find is a mouse trap, sprung and empty, and the faintest line of blood along the baseboard.
I wipe it with my thumb, then lick it, out of habit.
I check the radio, then the phone.
The radio hisses static, the kind that never resolves into a voice, just a bed of sound that says the world is still spinning.
I thumb through the pre-sets, each click a small admission that I don't want to be alone with my own head.
Nothing on the frequenciesbut Russian pop and the screech of distant taxi dispatchers.
I turn it off and listen to the silence, which is worse.
The phone, at least, offers the possibility of violence.
I check the call log—nothing.
I check the contacts, finger hovering over each name.
Lena, Niamh, Fiachra, Killian, Keira.
I stare at her name longest, as if I could will it to ring just by the force of wanting.
I set the phone down face-up on the table, daring it to betray me with bad news.
The place is too quiet.
My nerves itch.
The skin along my jaw is tight, and I feel the old urge to break something just to prove that I still have the power to do it.
I resist.
Instead, I wipe down the table, then the chairs, then the handles of every drawer and cupboard.
I don't know who will come after us, or when, but I want them to find nothing but the evidence of desperation.
I sit at the table, arms folded, and watch the door.
In the dead hours, my brain invents footsteps in the hallway, hands on the lock, the soft clink of a gun being readied outside.
I play out every scenario—the ambush, the slow approach, the surprise of a friend turned enemy.
I think about Fiachra and the way he'd probably just rip the door off its hinges and announce himself with a joke.
