Collusion

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‘We’re being followed,’ Eugene McSorley said. The Ford Focus crested the rise, weightless for a moment, and thudded hard back onto the tarmac. Its eight-year-old suspension did little to cushion the impact. McSorley kept his eyes on the rear-view mirror, the silver Skoda Octavia lost behind the hill he’d just sped over. It had been tailing them along the narrow country road since they crossed the border into the North.

Comiskey twisted in the passenger seat. ‘I don’t see anyone,’ he said. ‘No, wait. Fuck. Is that the peelers?’

‘Aye,’ McSorley said. The Skoda reappeared in his mirror, its windows tinted dark green. He couldn’t make out the occupants, but they were cops all right. The tarmac darkened under the growing drizzle, the sky a blank, heavy sheet of grey above the green fields.

‘Jesus,’ Hughes moaned from the back seat. ‘Are we going to get pulled?’

‘Looks like it,’ Comiskey said. ‘Fuck.’

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