His mobile home was positioned at the main entrance gates, giving him a clear view of arrivals, no matter what time of day or night they came. He wasn’t happy if they arrived after dark, unless they were a regular tipper, of course. For those who dared to arrive late at night, disturbing him, Ollie wasn’t backward about coming forward with his mood. Anyone who arrived after midnight was simply ignored. They could sit there until morning for all he cared. He’d hung a large sign on the front gate: ‘No admittance after midnight.’ Those who chanced their arms on that one soon found out that Ollie Gilmartin could be a very hard man to deal with.
The outgoing season had been busy. The recession certainly hadn’t damaged business, if anything it was the very opposite, with all them jetsetters staying at home. There had been no end of new arrivals once the schools had closed for the summer. As was the case since the beginning of Ollie’s reign, everyone who came to the holiday park was taken note of in his Registration Book. Even if you were only a day-tripper, the fact remained that if you walked and breathed at Beachfield Holiday Park, you were put in that large navy register book, whether you liked it or not. Every single visitor had to go into Ollie’s mobile home and sign in. If nothing else, the registration system Ollie had in place gave him the additional benefit of letting him know who would be responsible for the tipping. Filling in the registrar was one of the first caretaker jobs that had been explained to him, and it appealed to his sense of being the main man, the one in control.
He had lived alone most of his adult life and now, at the age of sixty-two, he’d gathered belongings the same way he’d gathered people around him – enough to get by, but never any more. Anything of value, other than his secret stash of whiskey, was locked in the old chest he’d bought at auction in Gorey ten years earlier. At the end of his mobile home, he’d removed one of the sofa beds and put in a makeshift desk. On the desk was a cup with a broken handle that held his pens, and a small plastic statue of the Virgin Mary, which sat on top of a black leather Bible, one he’d inherited when he’d taken over. He was fond of having the Bible there, adding an air of authority to his role and influence; he let people jump to their own conclusions about it.
The coming of winter meant the return of poker nights – his only passion after the pigeons. After the clocks went back, he and the lads played every Friday night, spending hours winning and losing their meagre sums of money. There had been the same four players for the past ten years. The only change had been when Jimmy snuffed it two years ago. It wasn’t the same with just three of them, which was why they had allowed Steven Hughes to start playing. He had a right mouth on him, Hughes, so as far as Ollie was concerned, he was okay as a poker player, but nothing more.
No, Ollie liked his own company best. Not that it came without a price. He made sure to keep his shotgun handy at night, by the side of the bed. Living alone made you an easy target, if you allowed it to. They had tried to break into his place a few years back, a right pair of hard men they were. But they’d gone running like hyenas by the time he’d finished with them, two shots from his Lanber had sorted them right enough.
He returned to his mobile home after finishing the grass-cutting, and as a reward poured himself a large whiskey. Ollie’s mouth salivated at the thought of that first kick of alcohol, the beginning of his peace and quiet for another year. A strong wind was starting to build up outside, but that only made the whiskey taste sweeter.
The last thing he expected to hear was a car horn honking.
‘Fuck this,’ he said out loud, taking a quick swig from the glass. ‘This better be bleeding important.’
Mervin Road
HE STOOD ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE ROAD, looking across at the house divided into apartments. The yellow door of 34 Mervin Road was bright, the side gate easy to jump, getting into the rear of the building wouldn’t be a problem. There was a fire escape fitted, which made things even easier. If it were night-time, he would have to smash the glass on the light sensor on the tree opposite, but that wasn’t a problem at this hour. Experience had taught him that what was needed most was speed, and to be able to pick the right moment, to wait until another sound – a neighbour closing a bin, heavy traffic – camouflaged any noise.
He moved quickly and climbed the fire escape. The husband and the child had arrived back from a visit to the shops ten minutes earlier. If Kate came home unexpectedly, he would have to deal with that. The open bedroom window helped things considerably. He was inside in less than a minute. The noise of the television blared from the living room, a football match from the sound of it. The first door in the hallway was locked, so he tried the next one. It was Kate’s bedroom, he was sure of it, as neat as a pin. He liked neat people.
When he stepped back out into the hallway, he noticed the door at the very end of the corridor was ajar. He walked down to it without a sound and looked inside.