'From what,' asked Finn?

'The law,' replied Marie. 'What did you want to be when you grew up . . . a marksman?'

Finn cracked a smile. 'I've never killed a man yet I could sit down and reason with.'

As soon as he said it he realised he'd gone too far. Marie's gaze dropped to the floor and the atmosphere in the room suddenly turned: as if a storm cloud had passed in front of the sun.

'Every now and then you say something that scares the shit out of me,' said Marie. 'It's all a bit too casual, you know. We're sitting here like we meet for Thai every Friday night . . . but we don't . . . I'm actually . . .' She didn't finish the sentence. Finn could see her eyes filling as she struggled to hold back the tears. 'Y'know what I mean. It may look like I'm okay with everything that's happened, but I've only ever seen this sort of shit on the telly, where it's sanitised: far enough away from reality to make it harmless. But when you see it for real, your mind . . . it's so confusing because your mind is still trying to figure out when the ad breaks are coming and everything can return to normal, but at the same time it knows that's not going to happen.' Marie paused for a second and looked up at Finn, trying to smile. 'I don't even usually use words like "shit".'

The tears were now streaming down her cheeks. 'It's not me,' she continued. 'Suddenly I feel like I'm living somebody else's life.'

Finn didn't know what to say. She was right. Killing that asshole had come too easily to him. He didn't feel any remorse: in fact, he didn't feel anything. It was all too casual; too easy. This girl didn't belong in his world.

'Do you think if I'd asked him nicely he'd have sat down and talked it out?' said Finn eventually. 'I had no option. He wasn't aiming at my shoulder . . . he was "missing" my head.'

Marie wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

'So it was you he was there for,' she said.

Chapter 12.

Newry Maundy Thursday afternoon

'D'you have a copy of yesterday's Irish Times please?'

That's what she'd been told to say, so she'd said it. The guy behind the counter stared at her, the friendly smile nowhere to be seen now she'd said the code words.

'Are you lookin for a particular story?' he asked hesitantly.

It was the right question, so she answered.

'Danny McGuire: any stories about him?'

The guy looked her up and down. 'Is that right? And would you be wantin it delivered anywhere in particular?'

Danny had told her that the newsagent would be suspicious, but if she said exactly what he'd told her she'd be fine.

'To Old McDonald,' replied Angela.

The guy still looked tense, but he nodded as if he was satisfied.

'What's the message?'

'Mr McGuire wants to send his apologies, but he's going to be a bit late for the meeting. He says he'll explain it all when he gets there.'

The guy nodded again. 'You'd better wait in case there's an answer.'

As he turned to go Angela said, 'Oh. Sorry, one other thing, do you have any Easter eggs?'

The guy paused for a second. 'Is that part of the message?'

'No. Mr McGuire asked me to get him a couple of Easter eggs.'

The shopkeeper pointed behind her. 'Over in the far corner, there's Cadbury's, Galaxy, the lot. He usually goes for the most expensive rather than the biggest.'

'Thanks,' said Angela as she headed off down one of the aisles.

It was only a small newsagent's, but there was a larger than average selection of eggs. She chose what looked to her like a couple of upmarket boxes and headed back to the counter.

What was she thinking, running errands for Danny McGuire: getting involved in God only knows what? She'd already worked out that 'Old McDonald' must be E. I. O'Leary, the commander in chief of the IRA. 'Old McDonald had a farm, E. I. E. I. O'Leary.' It wasn't the hardest code to crack.

As Angela stood waiting for the shopkeeper to return she glanced out of the window. Suddenly her stomach churned over. A guy in a black leather jacket was staring at her from across the street. He made no attempt to disguise what he was doing: didn't drop to his knees and start tying his shoelaces or pretend to be looking in a shop window, or even turn away: none of the usual. He didn't seem to care that he'd been spotted: just stood there, making sure she got the message that he was watching her.

Angela's heart started pounding in her chest. The guy was pointing something at the window that looked like a gun.

She was about to duck down when she noticed the small set of headphones and the cable connected to whatever it was he was holding. Not a gun, but a microphone.

Had he been listening in on the conversation? Angela started replaying in her mind everything she'd said. She'd done exactly what Danny had told her to: if anything went wrong it wasn't her fault.

Angela wasn't sure what to do. Danny hadn't mentioned anything about guys with goddamn microphones. There was no script to work off.

The shopkeeper was taking his time. It wasn't that long a message. 'What are you doing, sending it in Morse code?' she murmured under her breath.

She wanted out of there.

'Calm down, calm down' she said to herself.

The door to the back room flew open with a bang, making her jump.

'Christ!'

The shopkeeper was behind the counter again. 'You all right?'

'Yeah, fine,' said Angela. 'I was looking at the guy across the street pointing the bloody microphone at us.'

'What guy?' asked the shopkeeper.

Angela looked out of the window again, but no one was there. The man had disappeared. 'I swear on my mother's life there was a-' Angela stopped herself. 'Doesn't matter! My mind was running away with me,' she continued. 'I haven't slept for nearly thirty hours. I'm imagining things.'

The shopkeeper's face remained impassive: he didn't seem to care.

'You've to tell yer man not to worry. They know all about last night and he's to make his way over when he can. Old McDonald still wants to see him though, but there's no rush.'

Angela thanked him and headed for the door.

The shopkeeper called after her, 'Are you going to take the eggs?'

'Jeez, I'm going off my head here,' said Angela returning to the counter. 'How much do I owe?'

The newsagent shook his head and gave a wry smile. 'Yer all right, there's no charge.'

As Angela reached across the counter to pick up the bag of eggs the shopkeeper suddenly reached out and caught her by the arm. 'You mind how ye go there, all right? Don't get too involved.' He let go of her arm, and started busying himself with the cigarettes stacked in rows on the wall behind: acting like nothing had happened, ignoring Angela now, as though she had already left the shop.

Angela wanted to ask, 'Don't get too involved in what?' but she knew he wouldn't answer. Danny McGuire had tilted her world up on its end: everything she recognised as familiar was still there, but it had all slid into a messy bundle in a corner of the room that was her life.

Back out on the rain-splattered street Angela looked for signs of the man in the leather jacket, but he was nowhere to be seen. Aside from a few scraps of soggy paper floating along the gutter, the street was empty.

As Angela set off, she felt certain that she was being watched.

The heavy rain had soaked through her thin jumper making her blouse cling uncomfortably to her skin and causing her to shiver. The shop was only a short distance from Danny's house. He'd laughed when she'd suggested taking her car, but Angela was wishing she'd ignored him.

'By the time you've opened the door and turned on the ignition you'd be on your way back,' he'd said.

She had another look over her shoulder before breaking into a run.

Angela reached the corner of Derrybeg Lane and stopped. The white van was gone, but standing on the pavement next to where it had been parked stood the guy she'd seen outside the shop.

She considered running back the way she had just come: but where would she run to? In the brief moment's hesitation the guy had spotted her. He pushed himself off the metal railings and started towards her.

Angela decided her only option was to keep going, try and pass the guy: get as close to Danny's house as possible and if he tried anything, scream the goddamn place down. But fear had left her paralysed, frozen to the spot, unable to move in any direction.

When the guy was only yards away Angela suddenly came to her senses: she lashed out, swinging the bag of Easter eggs in a wide arc and catching the guy full in the face. It was never going to stop him, but at least she was moving now: taking some action. She let go of the bag and launched herself between the parked cars that lined the whole of the street.

She didn't see the dark-blue car, or hear the tyres squealing as it skidded to a halt, but she was aware of her legs being knocked from under her: aware of her breath being punched from her lungs as she bounced off the bonnet and landed heavily on the ground. She was winded, but before the driver of the car had even opened his door she was up and running, breathing heavily as she struggled to get her lungs working again. Her only objective now was to get to the end of Derrybeg Lane and the safety of Danny's house.

When Angela reached the front door she realised she had no idea which key fitted the lock. She looked over her shoulder and saw the guy running across the road towards her: he was less than a hundred yards away, shouting something she couldn't make out.

The small clump of keys Danny had given her slipped from her grasp and fell to the ground. She quickly scooped them up, fumbled for another key and tried again. On her third attempt the key eventually slipped in. Angela stumbled into the hallway and slammed the door hard behind her.

'Danny! Danny,' she shouted. 'Are you there?'

As she stood in the narrow hallway listening to the sound of her own breathing she became aware of the stinging sensation in her legs. Angela looked down and saw blood trickling down her shins from ragged gashes on both of her knees.

'Danny!'

The knuckles on her right hand were skinned as well, and her wrist was throbbing painfully.

Angela made her way cautiously upstairs to the bedroom.

'Danny, you there?'

Angela winced with pain as she pressed her damaged hand against the bedroom door and eased it open. The cup of tea she'd made earlier was still sitting on the bedside table: the half-eaten piece of toast on the plate beside it. Everything was exactly as she'd left it, but somehow Angela knew the whole world was different. The house seemed to reverberate with empty silence.

A realisation struck her with such intensity it made her reach out to steady herself. There was a moment where she thought she was going to collapse. She'd been in such a state of fear when she'd run up the driveway that she failed to register her surroundings fully, but subliminally she must have taken the information in. Angela reluctantly made her way over to the window and pulled aside one of the curtains. She was right . . . the space outside Danny's garage was empty: her car was gone.

The guy in the leather jacket was standing across the street staring up at her impassively: leaning against the railings again, letting her know he wasn't going away.

Angela stepped back from the window.

Another thought struck her. Danny had used her to lure the guy away from the front of the house so that he could leave without being seen.

'You're a sneaky son-of-a-bitch, Danny McGuire,' she said to herself as she looked around the empty room.

Suddenly her whole body seemed to ache.

Chapter 13.

Tuscaloosa, Good Friday mid morning

'Do you think if you saw him again you would recognise him?'

'Which one the black guy shooting up the alleyway or the guy from Cottondale with the funny accent who saved everyone's lives and knows how to handle a shotgun?' She saw the two FBI agents exchange a glance, but thought nothing of it.

'The guy with the funny accent,' replied the grumpier of the two.

The image of Finn lying on the sofa snoring as Marie snuck out the door earlier that morning flashed through her mind. 'Yeah, I'm pretty sure I would recognise him again,' she said. 'Why, do you have photographs or photofits or whatever they're called?'

'Not yet, but we're getting there. Most people in the bar were watching the asshole doing the shooting rather than paying attention to who or what he was shooting at.'

Marie's attention was drifting again. There was something about these guys that pushed all her 'off' buttons simultaneously.

She'd been surprised at the amount of media attention the story was attracting. When she'd arrived at the police station earlier she'd had to push her way through a crowd of journalists and news cameras to get up the steps. It wasn't until she was safely inside the building that she'd fully registered why they were all there: the shootings at McHales and at the hospital were front-page material. It got her thinking: made her realise that she really didn't want to be a part of all this.

The two agents who'd travelled down from Birmingham had kept her waiting for nearly an hour. She was cold and not in the best of moods. Marie had been sitting in the air-conditioned interview room for too long answering dumb questions: the same dumb questions she'd been asked the day before, the only difference being, the two dumb nuts doing the asking were the FBI instead of 'Ball' and his local deputies. They'd introduced themselves as Agent Joe Evelyn and Agent Jeff Kneller with a silent 'K'. Kneller looked like he smoked sixty a day, two at a time. The centre of his grey moustache was stained nicotine-brown, as were the middle and index fingers of his right hand. Marie supposed he was grumpy because he'd run out. She couldn't figure out why the other one Evelyn kept staring at her chest.