the shoe shop, just kept moving. These days, you can’t scratch your balls without being picked up on a CCTV camera.
That could be taken care of, no bother.
In a camping supplies shop, Vincent found a plastic rain jacket wrapped up into a compact plastic bag – bright red. Just the job.
Twenty-two fucking euro . A plastic raincoat in a cutesy plastic bag – you’ve got to be fucking kidding me .
All that shit about prices falling through the floor . . .
There was room for the raincoat, stuffed down his jeans, under the back of his jacket – for a moment, Vincent considered it.
Not worth the risk .
At the cash register, his shades pushed up into his hair, Vincent paid the beardie behind the counter and said, ‘Bit pricey, for a plastic mac. Celtic Tiger prices, right?’
‘It’s a first-rate product, sir, and I—’
‘Rip-off merchants.’
He dumped the cutesy plastic bag in a litter bin and kept the raincoat in the deep inside pocket of his jacket, with the Tommy Tiernan DVD. As he sauntered down a lane close to the target shop, he stopped in the doorway of an Asian food shop and adjusted his shades. He took out the raincoat, put it on, zipped it up and pulled the hood over his head. He hated hoodies, hoods of any kind – made him feel like a horse in blinkers. But there was no better shield from CCTV cameras.
Quick glance inside. No customers.
First thing, once he got into the shoe shop, he clocked the inside of the door, looking for a latch or a bolt he could slip, lock the door behind him. Nothing doing .
Not to worry – this time of morning, this kind of snooty shop, customers would be thin on the ground.
He turned towards the shop assistant, her expression slightly amused as she took in the rainwear, the shades. It took a moment, then she seemed to shrink into herself as it hit her what was happening.
The thing was, they were wearing gloves. Both of them. Without that detail, Maura Coady mightn’t have given them a second thought.
Getting out of the dark green car. Gloves, in this weather. Cream-coloured, thin, stretchy plastic gloves. Like a surgeon wears.
If just one of the two men was wearing plastic gloves it could be he had a problem with his skin. Both men—
None of your business, Maura .
When Maura Coady moved to this house in North Strand, two years back, the excitement of finally living alone, of having a space to which no one else in the world had a right, filled her with exhilaration. She didn’t have a television, a detachment from the outer world that she inherited from the long decades in the convent. But she had a window – and the view through the net curtain provided sufficient drama. The window looked directly out onto the street, no garden, the pavement just inches away. The routine was mostly humdrum, workaday, but there were moments. She’d be crossing the room, about to do some chore, when she’d notice someone wheeling a trolley back from the Spar on the corner. She’d stand and watch them pass, imagine their lives for a few moments – not out of curiosity or envy, just enjoying the fleeting indulgence. Then she’d get on with whatever she was about.
Other times, there were kids down the corner, messing – nothing rough, just youngsters enjoying a bit of horseplay, and that would hold her attention. Sometimes it brought back memories of her pupils, decades ago. Very occasionally, there would be a trivial argument – a parent and a child, a couple of adults – never anything serious. There was always something happening, small and all as it might be. She sometimes felt guilty, like she was a bit of a sneaky-peeker, but she easily forgave herself. It was just a small interest in how people lived their lives.
Now, she watched Phil Heneghan carefully stand up. He’d been kneeling at the front of his house across the road, using a pencil to clear dirt out of the holes in the ventilation block. He’d be over later today, offering to do one chore or another,
Bwwm Romance Dot Com, Esther Banks