Black Water, page 24
‘Bingo,’ Jig shouted. ‘Give us a hand here.’
Kids ran from everywhere. Jig and Spikey marshalled their army, and heaved the sofa towards the green.
There was a stinking wet smell from the fire now and a toxic black smoke.
A man came out and moved his car down the road. Jig led the loud laughs and nodded to himself in satisfaction.
He looked at his phone. It was still only six o’clock.
He had another two hours of freedom.
57
Crowe dumped her bag on the counter. She clipped off her holster and placed it down, exhaling relief and flexing her hip.
She opened the fridge and took out a can and cracked it open. As she savoured a gulp, her eyes rested on a post-it she’d stuck on the fridge door days ago, reminding Tom to buy some fruit.
Where the fuck was he anyway, she wondered.
On Halloween night? He’s hardly out trick-or-treating.
She opened her bag and took out her phone, then grabbed the evening paper she had bought after seeing the headline.
Teen beaten to a pulp in drugs row, it said.
Though Micko Hynes wasn’t named, she knew it referred to him. The boy ran one of the canal crews. She had gone down to the parents’ place in St Frances flats, but was told to fuck off and had the door slammed in her face.
The teenager had his jaw bone and nose broken, had lost sight in his left eye and had severe bruising all over his back. Any more belts to his head, the doctors had told her, he would have been left a vegetable. All at the end of a club. One, Crowe was sure, wielded by Cracko. But no one would talk. Same old story.
She took a long swig from her can.
Another of my investigations going nowhere. At this rate, I’ll be clocking up one of the worst detection rates in the station. Some chance of a promotion then.
What the beating was for, she didn’t know. The newspaper said it was a drugs row. But, that’s what they always said. No, there was something deeper going on with the Canal Gang in the last few weeks: the seizures, the attack on the addict and his girlfriend and now this beating. The gang was under pressure, for sure. But why? And was it connected to this republican threat Lynn was on about?
Tom intruded on her thinking again. She picked up her phone and rang his number. A faint noise went off from down the hall. It seemed to be coming from their bedroom. Maybe he had dozed off, she thought as she headed to the room. Her spirits lifted.
But there was no Tom. Just the screen of his phone lit up on the bed.
Crowe sat down in the gloom and picked the phone up. She took a long drink, as she deliberated. With only the slightest trace of guilt, she began scrolling through his texts. She didn’t want to find anything. But, at the same time, part of her did. It would confirm what she suspected. But she found it hard to focus on the names and numbers. She was just too tired.
She tapped in 171 and hit dial.
‘You have no new messages. You have one old message. To hear the message . . .’
Crowe hit six. There was a woman’s voice. Crowe tugged at the collar of her shirt. The woman spoke in whispered, broken words. She turned up the volume.
‘I know you told me not to ring you on your phone because she might be there.’
Crowe felt as if a switch inside her had been flicked.
‘I know, but I want your cock.’
Crowe’s arms and legs started to shake. The can slipped from her hand. Foaming liquid spilled out.
‘I’ve put on white gym pants. You’ll like them. They’re really tight and curve around my big juicy ass.’
The voice was breathing into the phone. Crowe tried to pull the phone away, but it was stuck to her sweaty palm. Her mind was screaming. Her heart banged, but she couldn’t stop listening.
‘My top is cut really low. And I’m wearing six-inch heels.’
This could not be happening.
The bastard. How could he?
‘I’ll suck your cock, lick it nice and slow. Hmm. Up and down. Kiss it and lick it.’
Crowe dropped the phone. She felt sick. The wall swayed in front of her. She struggled to catch a breath.
She stumbled and opened the window, closing her eyes to the blast of cold against her cheeks. Faint music wafted from an apartment below. Someone plucking a guitar. A soft male voice. The song sounded familiar. Lou Reed. ‘Perfect Day.’ Crowe’s eyes welled up. She clenched her teeth.
I am not going to stand for this.
She made for the door, but she couldn’t help but look at the mobile. The screen glowed. The call was still going. She could still hear the whore. She kneeled down and held the phone to her ear.
‘Nothing is off limits. Nothing. I know what you want to do to me. She won’t let you do it to her, but I will . . .’
Crowe flung the phone away, smacking it against the wall, and screamed down at the carpet.
‘You fucking bastard, you complete fucking bastard!’
She sniffed the tears away and wiped her cheeks.
I am not going to break down here in the bedroom for him to find me, a blubbering, pathetic wreck.
She pushed for the bathroom, though it felt like a boulder was strapped to her body.
58
Jig watched one of the older lads pull out a blazing ball of cloth from the bonfire with a golf club. He scooped it up with the head of the club and swung it around. The other lads roared encouragement and the girls shrieked as he pretended to lob it at them, then actually did, just missing their heads.
A banger exploded in the flames, nearly catapulting Jig off the edge of the sofa. Some of the lads had pulled down the back of their tracksuits and were pretending to roast their arses against the fires. The girls laughed and recorded it on their phones.
Jig wanted to stay for the craic, as it was only getting going now. But Ghost had told him to be home at 8 p.m. He knew he’d better not be late. He checked the time on his phone and started running.
When he neared his house, he didn’t recognise the car outside. But, he could sense Ghost was inside it.
Before he got to it, Ghost stepped out. Jig saw the side of his face, his sharp cheekbones glistening. His arms swung as he walked around the front of the car. He had a plastic bag in one hand and for a moment Jig thought he looked like he was trick-or-treating. He laughed to himself at the thought of him and Ghost trick-or-treating, scaring the shit out of everyone, filling their bags with sweets and marshmallows and stuffing themselves.
‘Go in and put these on, the runners and all,’ Ghost said, handing him the bag. ‘Take off yer underwear and just put on the tracksuit.’
Jig opened the bag, expecting to see top of the range gear. But it was some grey tracksuit and cheap runners.
‘They look poxy?’
‘It’s not for a fucking fashion show, just put them on,’ Ghost said, pushing him towards his house. ‘Who’s inside?’
‘Me sister.’
‘Where’s yer ma?’
Jig just shook his head. He saw Ghost nod. Jig wondered was even Ghost afraid of his ma? Jig rapped on the door and Donna opened it. Jig could see she tried to smother a smile on seeing Ghost behind him. He dipped under Donna’s arm and took the stairs in jumps.
Donna watched Ghost tap out a cigarette. He was about to put it away when he stopped and offered her one.
She remembered the gesture, although it was ages ago now. She took it and accepted his light.
‘Yer looking well,’ Ghost said.
She tapped her foot against the door, then smiled.
‘Off the gear and the tablets,’ she said, taking a long drag, ‘almost a month.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Fucking yeah. I’m a government junkie now,’ she laughed, ‘just the methadone, well, and the weed.’
The door into the front room opened and out popped one little head, then another. They stared at Ghost in the half-light.
‘Right, in, watch the telly,’ Donna said, pushing them back.
As she turned to her side, she could sense Ghost eyeing her body, lingering on her curves. She kept her pose for a second longer than she needed to. Just for old times’ sake.
‘What’s their names again?’ Ghost asked, as she faced him.
She paused.
‘Wayne, Crystal, isn’t it?’ he said, before she could respond.
She looked at him and thought he smiled as he dragged hard. The light from the street lamp spread over his face as he turned. His skin was pulled so thin she could almost see his bones, grey against the yellowy-white. It reminded her of old television pictures from a prisoner of war camp.
‘Where’s the dragon?’ he asked.
Donna was going to tell him to fuck off.
‘Out. Just as well for yer sake.’
Ghost snorted.
Donna tried to figure out whether Ghost’s presence at their doorstep was a sign he was innocent of Maggot’s disappearance or what. The garda kept saying it was his gang. But she didn’t trust those fuckers. They were playing their own mind games. They kept pulling her in for drug searches, even now, knowing she was off all of it. They did it to humiliate her and make her say something about Ghost and the gang. But she had nothing to say. She didn’t know anything. Maggot was a mad bastard and, truth be told, a bad bastard. Like their da. He was going to be killed or kill someone himself. It was just a matter of time. But she felt bad about little Jig being in Ghost’s grasp. She had left him, and the kids, but she had to. She’d risked all she had managed to do in getting clean by coming back to the hole. She only did so because she heard her ma was down the pub all the time and the kids were running wild and going hungry. The da had just fucking disappeared, same as always.
Donna furrowed her eyebrows at the clothes on Jig as he clattered down the stairs, followed by Bowie.
‘Where’s he going in that get-up?’ she said to Ghost. ‘It’s hanging off him.’
But Ghost didn’t respond and looked down towards the canal.
Jig told Bowie to go to the kitchen, but the dog stayed put, giving a loud bark at the door. Jig pushed him down and closed the kitchen door behind him. Bowie scratched and yelped.
Donna put her arm out to block Jig, but he shoved it away.
‘Where ya going?’ she shouted after him.
‘Leave yer phone behind,’ Ghost said.
Jig walked back in and dropped the phone down on top of some clothes.
‘Why’s he leaving his phone here?’ Donna asked. ‘Where youse going?’
Ghost flicked away the butt of the fag.
‘Listen, Don, don’t worry. I’ll have him back in an hour, two tops.’
He hadn’t called her Don since they were teens. It disarmed her. Ghost wasn’t going to do anything. She knew that. He wouldn’t be here showing his face if he was. But something was up.
Ghost and Jig moved for the car. Donna closed the door slightly, took her mobile out and turned it to vibrate mode.
‘Hey, Jig. Come back here and give me a hug,’ she said with strained cheeriness. ‘Come on.’
Jig lumbered back, pretending to be pissed off. Donna pulled him tight and slipped her phone into one of his front pockets. Noticing Jig’s reaction, she kissed him on the forehead and let him go. As she closed the door, Bowie stopped barking and started to whine.
59
Shay sat in the darkness, facing the window. His head cracked with pain as he lifted the glass. He gasped at the rum and Coke washing through him. It was lukewarm, but he didn’t need ice.
The doorbell went again, the sound muffled. His ears were badly blocked. He pressed his fingers against them and shook the wax. One of the ears cleared, but only for a second, then closed over again.
Kids had always got decent treats at their house. Not this year, he thought bitterly. He finished the glass and emptied more rum in, with just a dash of Coke this time.
He wondered were Molly and Charlie still out. Molly was going to dress up as a scary witch and Charlie as Harry Potter. The drink swished inside him as he imagined them sorting through their goodies. The smoke alarm beeped behind him.
Through the half-open blinds, Shay watched the shifting blocks of orange and yellow and, in the foreground, dancing black silhouettes.
A white Hiace van drove slowly past his window and stopped. A man got out and swung open the back doors. There was a shout and kids came running. He fucked stuff onto the road – carpets, poles, seats of some sort and loads of rubbish bags. The back doors closed and the van drove off. Shay cursed the fucker. He savoured a passing thought of smashing his bottle over the man’s head. The kids milled around, pondering the best bits, and pulled them over to the fire, leaving the rest on the road.
Shay polished off another glass and poured more in. As he looked up, he noticed the kids’ music drum on the mantelpiece.
He pulled himself up, tensing at the pain, and stepped towards the drum. He rotated the lever. It was the ‘Chim Chim Cher-ee’ tune from Mary Poppins. The notes twanged as he turned it. The sweet sound stirred emotions inside him. Images popped up in his mind: of him playing it as he lay down in Charlie’s bed, his son’s eyes sparkling at the music and his dad’s presence.
He jolted as fireworks exploded on the green, and looked out. There was a huddle of kids around a bigger shape. They roared as fireworks sailed up into the air, smacking and briefly decorating the sky. But some went astray, shooting horizontally, zipping over the grass at speed, hitting off houses and roofs. He heard startled shouts from parents and kids and saw some figures diving for cover.
The combination of pain and swishing booze was making him queasy. He placed the music drum down, grim thoughts massing again.
He felt an urge to get out. He grabbed the bottle and opened the door.
His nostrils flared at the cool night air. His eyes shot back as the alcohol, the acrid smell and the cacophony of noise assailed him.
Shay heaved into the canal, just as two swans glided past, blissfully unaware of the madness around them. Their unruffled detachment grated him tonight. He stumbled down to a lock, and fell against a balance beam. He leaned over the inky black water and dropped the empty bottle. It landed with a plop in the chamber below, a good twenty feet down. The sound washed over him. Some of the spray ran up along his face, soothing his aching forehead. The sensation gave him a pleasant tingling. It felt enticing. He wanted more of it. Thoughts whispered inside him.
Lean in.
More spray played with his face and head. Shay smiled. He could feel himself wobble slightly, but he didn’t adjust his balance. He wasn’t going to fight it.
Soothing water.
He tilted.
The first clap he heard only dimly. He was tipping. Then there was another clap, and another. Parting his eyes, he tried to focus. It was one of the swans. He had pushed himself up out the water. His big wings were unfolded and he was flapping them, again and again. Shay reached to his side. He managed to grab the top of a rack gate and steadied himself, right on the edge. He blinked at the foaming waters and stepped back.
He gasped as he realised what he was about to do. He stumbled away, his mind a crowded boxing arena of half-shouts, ragged fantasies and mocking voices. The clamour of house alarms, dogs barking and bangers exploding muscled their way in.
His attention turned to the clipped noises of heels running. Ahead, a young girl in shiny red trousers tottered across the road, looking anxiously back at a house. Music blared from an open door and bodies spilled out. Dim voices in Shay’s head told him to turn around, but he didn’t heed them. Youths ran up the road ahead of him shouting at someone. Then they came back, towards Shay. He lowered his head as they neared.
There was movement and he heard a crunch, caught a glimpse of a fist passing his nose and he lurched to the side. He reached out. His wrist broke the fall. He sensed a body circling him.
Get up.
He pushed himself off the ground, and stumbled forward, his vision blurred. A bottle smashed close beside him. He broke into a run around a corner and up to a roundabout.
He threw himself against a low wall, heaving breaths. His wrist throbbed. He felt his nose with his left hand: it was huge and all zigzaggy. His top was covered in blood and was torn, his trousers too. He pinched his nose to try and stop the bleeding.
‘Fucking Jesus,’ he muttered.
He tore at a tissue in his pocket and put two bits up his nose.
As the adrenaline spent itself, Shay brooded over the attack.
If I hadn’t got up, I could have had my head kicked in.
He fought an urge to go back and jump on the guy.
He vented his spleen at the black sky. Just as his mobile rang.
60
Shay wanted the screen to say Lisa. He needed to hear her voice. But it wasn’t. It was the priest. He pressed answer.
‘Shay? Jig’s in trouble.’
Shay snorted as if he’d been told a stupid joke.
Jig. Can you fucking believe it?
‘We need to find him . . . Shay?’
Shay stopped short from telling the priest to fuck off. Thick blood dripped through the tissues. He spread his legs apart to let it splatter on the ground. He grabbed his bloody rag and held it to his nostrils.
‘Can’t . . . help,’ he managed to say between spits and coughs.
‘Shay, something awful is about to happen.’
Shay ran his fingers along his nose again. The bone curved one way, then back the other way.
Must be broken. The pricks.
‘Shay?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Leo told me he was going to die tonight and that the crew were going with him. All of them . . . including Jig.’
Shay kept his head back and stared up at the sky, which flashed and exploded in colours. He sucked in air, struggling to cope with the choking sensation in his mouth and nose and the battering to his head.
‘He said the RCAD are in on it. He got me to say an Our Father with him and do an act of contrition.’
Shay leaned against a wall. He felt so weak and sick of it all. His tinnitus rang in his ear.
