'If you're the one getting the goods back then I suppose it does,' replied Danny. 'How much did your car cost you?'

'Why you asking?'

'I want to buy it off you.'

It was blunt, but it answered her question.

'You want to buy it off me?' repeated Angela, raising her eyebrows. 'I don't remember putting a "for sale" sign in the window.'

'I'll give you five grand for it.'

Angela raised her eyebrows even higher. 'Are you off your head? It's not worth five quid . . . plus, it's not for sale.'

Danny pulled a fat bundle of notes from inside his jacket and placed them on the small wooden coffee table that sat between the sofa and hearth. 'I didn't expect to have to bargain with you, but if that's how you want to play it five-and-a-half grand and not a penny more.'

'I'm not bargaining Danny, it's not for sale.'

'You're a tough negotiator.'

'I'm not negotiating.'

'Six grand.'

'No.'

'Seven?'

'Jesus! No.'

'Seven-and-a-half?'

'Stop it, Danny.'

'Eight?'

'Stop it,' she said more firmly.

'Okay you win. Ten grand, take it or leave it?'

Angela was staring at him. It was more money than she had ever seen in her life. If she worked for another twenty years she knew she would never have that much in her bank account, but she also knew she couldn't take it. She was trying to read Danny's face, find out what he was thinking, but the mask was on as always.

Angela was resolute. 'Thanks for the offer, but I'll leave it.'

Her mother entered the living room and placed a hot mug of tea on the coffee table. 'There's no bacon left, you drink that up and be on your way, son.'

'Ma, that's enough,' said Angela, interrupting.

'I'm just saying. I've gone through enough trouble when your father was alive and I don't want any more. Not for me, not for you. Drink your tea, and then I'd be grateful if you left my daughter and me in peace. And you can take your money too. We won't be needing it.'

Angela got to her feet and shepherded her mother back towards the door. 'That's enough, Ma, please. There's no need to be rude. Go back to the kitchen and make me some toast would you? I'll be with you in a minute.'

Danny got to his feet as well. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Fitzpatrick, I just want to say a few words to Angela then I promise I'll leave you alone.'

'Finish your tea then out!' continued Mrs Fitzpatrick, hardening her tone.

'Enough,' said Angela matching her mother.

She waited for her mum to go into the hall then closed the door behind her.

'I'm sorry about that . . .' she started to say as she gathered the cash off the table.

'Yer all right.'

'I'm all she's got. She can be a bit over-protective.'

'Honestly, it's fine,' said Danny.

When Angela had gathered up each of the thousand-pound bundles she held them towards him, but Danny kept his hands by his sides. 'If the car means that much to you, you can have it,' she said. 'I don't want your money, Danny, okay. Please take this back.'

She lifted her eyes and caught Danny's stare burrowing deep inside her, catching and holding her; connected.

'The car means fuck-all to me,' said Danny quietly under his breath. 'You're the only person, in a long time, that's done anything good for me, and for that, I owe you.' He saw Angela make to interrupt him and held his hand up to stop her. 'Don't say another word; just wait till I'm finished, okay? If you hadn't stopped and picked me up the other day I wouldn't be here now . . . for that I owe you. Decency doesn't drink in the same bars as me these days: you reminded me that it still exists and for that I owe you as well. I want you to accept this money as my way of saying thank you: I'll be offended if you don't. Now, I have one last favour to ask. If you don't want to do it if you want to say no, I'll understand, but right now you're the only person I know I can trust.' Danny pulled another thick envelope from his pocket and handed it to Angela. 'There's another ten grand in here I'd like you to deliver to rlaith.'

Angela felt her stomach turn over at the mention of his wife: she struggled not to let her emotions show on her face.

She nodded.

'The address is on the front and there's a letter in there for my ma, I'd be very grateful if you made sure she got it. There's other stuff I want to tell you, but it can wait.' With that Danny moved closer to the door.

'Why can't you take it yourself?' asked Angela.

'I have to be getting on my way, places to go, things to do, a tug-of-war to be won.' Danny was already in the hall. 'That, and rlaith's staying round at my ma's house and my ma hasn't spoken a word to me for over five years. It's complicated, but as I say: it can wait.'

'I won't get a chance until the weekend. Will that be okay?' asked Angela.

'Sure there's no hurry' replied Danny. 'By the way, what happened to the Easter eggs you went to buy for me?'

Angela could feel a tear burning its way to the surface. She didn't know why, but she wanted to cry. 'I used them as an offensive weapon to ward off an attacker, but I'll tell you about that later. "It can wait", too.'

'You'll have to take that up with rlaith and Niamh, the eggs were for them. Don't go getting upset now, Angel, there's plenty more in the shop.' With that he bent over and kissed Angela softly on the lips: it was quick and tender and before she could respond it was over.

'What time do you finish at the hospital tonight?'

'I start early-shift tomorrow so I'll be finished by about four today.'

'I've got a lot I need to sort out before my flight tomorrow, but I can take care of that this afternoon. I'm free for a drink tonight.'

'Good for you! If that's your way of asking me out, you old charmer, I'm afraid I don't date married men.'

'Good for you!' replied Danny. 'Who said anything about a date? We're just going for a drink. I'll pick you up here at six, is that too early?'

'No,' she heard herself say.

'I'll park round the corner so that you don't have to explain anything to your ma. See you later, Angel.'

Angela felt her face flush again.

Chapter 18.

Tuscaloosa, Good Friday, late morning

Finn O'Hanlon's forehead creased as he rolled onto his side and felt a stabbing pain from the three-inch strip of grazed flesh Culo Conrado's bullet had left behind on his shoulder. His eyes felt like two hard-boiled eggs that had been cracked open using a blunt steak knife.

Finn swung his legs down over the edge of the sofa and manoeuvred himself with some effort into a sitting position. His blood-stained shirt had dried onto his skin and he was still wearing the clothes from the previous night, including his tatty Converse.

He had no recollection of asking to stay over, so could only assume that he had passed out on the sofa and been left where he'd 'fallen'.

Half-eaten cartons of food lay scattered on top of the small coffee table and even his empty beer glass was still sitting where he'd left it, tucked under the sofa. The only thing that had changed was that sunlight was now glaring through the curtainless windows instead of orange sodium.

Apart from his shoulder and the thud of a dehydrated headache he felt reasonably okay. The crushing tiredness from the previous day was gone and he felt ready.

Ready for what, was a question he'd try answering after he'd showered and made himself a coffee.

Finn sat still for a few moments listening for any other sounds of life.

Marie's bedroom door was slightly ajar, but he was pretty sure she wasn't in there: the apartment felt empty.

Finn stood up and shuffled over to the sink, filled the kettle and searched the cupboards for a packet of fresh coffee. It wasn't difficult to find. There was nothing else except coffee and Oreos.

As he waited for the kettle to come to the boil he headed towards Marie's bedroom and stuck his head cautiously round the doorframe.

There was a clean folded towel, sitting on the end of Marie's crumpled bed with a note resting on top of it, but no sign of her.

Finn picked up the note.

Dear Mr O'Hanlon, Feel free to use the shower and any soapy things, but no rummaging in my drawers . . . I'll know!!! I'm guessing you've nowhere else to go so I've left you a set of keys and fifty bucks (nothing smaller in my purse) on the floor by the front door. If you turn right out the main gate and walk along a few blocks you'll see a diner called Carlo's on the corner. The decor's all wrong, but the breakfast is the best in Tuscaloosa. Washing machine and dryer under the sink! No offence, but I didn't open the window in the lounge to let the fresh air in: I opened it to let the bad air out. Off to the sheriff's to meet a couple of FBI agents, come all the way down from Birmingham to talk to 'lil ole me'. They must think I know something. Thank you for not murdering me in my sleep.

M x PS Please destroy this after reading: aiding and abetting a felon is a hangable offence in Alabama. Worse than sitting on a bus with the white folk.

PPS Are you a felon?

Finn looked across at the tall dresser on the opposite side of the room and figured that the long thin drawer at the top was probably the one to go for first. It would never have occurred to him to go rummaging, but now that she'd put the notion in his head what was he supposed to do? He walked over and slid open the top drawer. There in front of him was a jumbled mess of Marie's underwear. Mostly thongs, and lacy strings with embroidered panels, nearly all of them black. Finn smiled: she'd left another note in the drawer which read 'Shame on you.'

Finn picked up a piece of sheer, triangular gossamer, with straps no thicker than a pencil. A thin whistle escaped between his teeth.

'Holy Mother of God!'

Finn dropped the piece of lingerie back onto the pile and was about to close the drawer when he noticed the handle of a Snub Nose .38 sticking out from under an unopened packet of stockings. Finn pulled the drawer out further. There was a full box of .38 millimetre shells sitting alongside.

The sound of the kettle clicking in the other room made him jump.

He carefully put everything back the way he'd found it and headed through to the kitchen.

'Thank you for not murdering me in my sleep,' he muttered, placing Marie's note on the worktop. He lifted the kettle and poured the hot, steaming water over a tablespoonful of coffee he'd tipped into a paper filter. As he waited for the dark brown liquid to percolate through Finn stripped off.

Everything went into the washing machine, socks, underpants, jeans, T-shirt and Converse: the sum total of his possessions. Whatever else he owned he'd have to leave behind in his apartment in Cottondale: everything except the cornflake packet. He wondered if the two assholes that had tried to hit him in McHales had gone there first. If they had, and they'd found the cornflake packet, then Finn's escape plan would be null and void.

It was risky, but Finn knew he had to go back.

The coffee was ready. He sipped it as he walked back through Marie's bedroom into the en-suite bathroom. He pulled the shower curtain to one side and turned on the taps. Before stepping into the shower he examined the cut on his shoulder in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. It didn't look as bad as it felt.

Generally he kept himself fit, but the last few months he'd been getting sloppy: skipping the morning run, not doing the push-ups or sit-ups. It was beginning to show. The time had come to start running for real. His past wasn't snapping at his heels any more, it was standing right in front of him, baring its teeth.

How did they find him? They must have followed him to McHales. Or had they been watching him for months? Why there? Why not hit him at home where it would have been a lot quieter: no witnesses? Unless they still didn't know where he lived and just got lucky finding him in the bar.

Finn tried rolling his head around to relieve the tension in his neck, but he felt the skin around his wound tighten, so he stopped.

The large crucifix tattooed across his back was beginning to look smudged around the edges: definitely not as sharp as it was when it had first been done, just a week after he had arrived in America. A seraph nailed to a cross: her six wings spread out covering most of Finn's back with intricately detailed feathers. The upright post, latticed with Celtic banding, ran from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine, and the crossbar stretched from shoulder to shoulder. In the twisted ribbon near the bottom of the cross the words 'Sanctify yourself' were written in black Celtic scroll. He'd had it done to remind himself of the burden of guilt he would bear for the rest of his life.

'Not looking quite so sharp. You sure you're ready for a fight?' Finn asked the seraph.

He stepped over the edge of the bath and squeezed his eyes shut as the warm water hit his wound. A bottle of shower gel hung on the stem of the hot tap by its plastic hoop. Finn unscrewed the bottle top and held it to his nose. The smell was instantly recognisable: the delicate musky aroma that had wafted ahead of Marie when she'd appeared at her bedroom door last night. It was a scent full of promises: the promise of intimacy and sensual pleasure. The promise of warm, wet kisses and dark, passionate sex.

But Finn couldn't allow himself to go there. There were too many other things to think about; things to focus on . . . like how to stay alive.

He reached down and turned the hot tap anticlockwise.

Finn stayed under the freezing cold spray for as long as he could bear, then turned off the water, stepped out of the bath and dried himself. He fixed the towel round his waist and headed back through to the lounge.

The dial on the washing machine had barely moved. His clothes wouldn't be ready for at least another hour.

Finn picked up the phone sitting on top of an unopened packing box, freed a length of cable and made his way across to the window.

The sun felt warm on his skin and there was a balmy flow of air blowing through the four-inch gap between the sill and the bottom edge of the window. The patrol car that had been parked in the lot just inside the main gate was gone. The street beyond the perimeter fence was quiet, with only a few parked cars dotted along on the grass verges that ran adjacent.

Flanking the parking lot on either side were two small squares of grass with benches set around wooden picnic tables for the residents of the apartment block. One of the tables was host to three or four crows pecking at a discarded cardboard lunch box, left curling at the edges, in the full glare of the sun. Large flowerbeds bulging with mature perennials and colourful springtime flowers surrounded both the grass squares and acted as a screen from the world outside. To anyone else it might have seemed like an idyllic scene, but Finn had a dark shadow clouding his thoughts: an uneasy feeling he couldn't shake off.