Black Water, page 28
‘Wow,’ Crowe said. ‘That’s some shopping list of powers.’
‘Yeah, I wonder whose,’ Tyrell said, still listening to the news bulletin.
‘Meanwhile, government ministers have again rejected reports from Brussels that Ireland has applied for a bailout of up to ninety billion euro . . .’
Tyrell snapped the radio off and closed his eyes.
They both pondered for a moment.
‘By the way,’ Tyrell said, ‘what you make of this Shay fella?’
Crowe’s mobile beeped. She looked over at Tyrell.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘It’s probably Tom,’ she said, reading the message. ‘We’re thinking,’ she said, hesitating, ‘of going out.’
She saw a little smile on Tyrell’s face, but he pulled it back quickly. She typed in a message. She and Tom had promised to make an effort to work on their relationship.
‘I suspect you’ll get the nod now, after all your heroics,’ Tyrell said, straightening his back.
‘What about the ban on promotions?’ Crowe asked, feeling some heat on her cheeks.
‘I think they’ll make an exception for you. They should anyway.’
‘Thanks. Any chance they’ll fill the DS job? Maybe they’ll give it to you?’
Tyrell scoffed.
‘Even before the canal murders, they said it was a top priority, but the DS office is still empty. As for me, that ship has long sailed.’
Crowe nodded, but wondered why Tyrell didn’t think he’d get promoted. Suddenly, she remembered to thank him. She had never got a proper chance to up till now.
‘DI, that night, when I rang you on the phone, about leaving the Canal Gang, and the boy, to their fate. I never said thanks for what you said.’
Tyrell opened a drawer.
‘You knew what was the right thing to do,’ he said, reaching for something. ‘You just needed a reminder. We all do, from time to time.’
Crowe got up and walked to the door.
‘You were asking about Shay?’ she asked, turning around.
Tyrell waved his hand in the air, a packet in his fingers, as if to say it didn’t matter.
‘Another time,’ he said. ‘Interesting guy, though.’
Tyrell was right there, she thought. Shay was a strange fish.
‘And do us a favour, Crowe.’
She half-turned to face him.
‘I don’t want you in early tomorrow and full of beans. Come in with a decent hangover for once, yeah?’
Crowe smiled brightly and closed the door, just as she heard a mint crack.
Through a gap in the clouds, Shay watched the sun send a shaft of clear light dancing down the water. The blonde reeds at the edge of the canal bent in the soft wind, their brown flowers shaking their heads.
‘Daddy, the reeds are dancing,’ Molly said, running her hands through them.
‘Something nice after walk?’ asked Charlie, who was holding Shay’s hand. His son looked up at him, all hopeful.
‘Sure we will, after we feed the swans and walk around the canal. Okay?’
‘Something nice, something nice,’ Molly shouted, skipping up the path.
Shay rubbed his thumb along the top of Charlie’s hand. Charlie rubbed back with one of his soft fingers. Shay felt a warmth inside his heart from the gentle sensation.
Shay watched the cyclists and the joggers, glimmering in the late light. For mid-November there was still some warmth in the sun, although there were reports of bleak conditions descending the following week.
The leaves on the trees on the far side shone in a leisurely show of oranges, browns and yellows. In the distance, the two white lights of a Luas approached, accompanied by the sound of smooth metal sliding against metal. Shay closed his eyes, embalming himself in the moment.
When he opened them, Molly had stopped up ahead, at the shrine to Taylor Williams. Shay noticed the Dublin GAA top had been washed again and folded neatly where it had been since the day of the shooting. Three red night-lights rested on it. Beside it, a gleaming glass vase was dug into the earth, white lilies gracefully curving out.
Shay pushed out the image of the girl’s shattered face, her sister screaming and jumping, of the dogs barking, of Jig dripping as he stood in the waters.
‘Do children get shot on the canal, Daddy?’ Molly asked.
‘What? No. It was just an awful,’ he struggled for words, ‘thing to happen.’
‘Does girl still have hole in face?’ Charlie asked, feeling his own cheek.
‘No,’ Shay said, rubbing his hands over his son’s hair.
‘Does it heal in heaven?’ Molly asked.
Shay went silent. His children waited for an answer.
His phone vibrated.
Probably Lisa checking up, he thought. It was his first full day with the kids on his own since she left with them.
‘Unknown’ flashed on the screen.
He sighed. It wasn’t the first time they had rung. Sooner or later he’d have to answer. He tapped a button.
‘You decided to pick up?’
Shay said nothing. His heart was racing at the sound of Hall’s voice. Every night since the explosion he had waited for his door to be kicked in and for him to be dragged away in a black van.
‘You there?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Just touching base.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Given your solo run, you should be glad that’s all.’
‘Daddy? Can I have the bread?’ Molly asked. ‘For the swans and ducks.’
Shay let go of Charlie’s hand and pulled out the packet and handed it to Molly. Their little legs scurried off, their feet crunching on bits of glass.
‘I’m with the kids.’
‘I know, I see you.’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Only wrecking your head. We need to meet for a debrief.’
‘Two weeks on? What you want to debrief me about? I was fucking there. Or is it to tell me how fucked I am? Well, given the shit I’ve had to go through, put my family through, for fucking years, I don’t really care.’
Shay was pissed with himself getting all riled like that, but fuck them and their games.
‘You sure about that?’ Hall said, his tone sharpening.
‘What, the friendly chit-chat is over, is it?’ Shay replied. ‘You remember me ringing you that night? Not that you did much.’
‘You went behind my back. You ignored a direct order. And you jeopardised the op.’
Shay didn’t respond. Hall was right.
‘Anyway, it’s in the past,’ Hall said. ‘There’s a lot of stuff in the past people are not proud about, don’t want people to know.’
Fucker.
‘You threatening me?’
‘There are some things better left buried, is what I’m saying. For the greater good.’
‘The greater good, eh? Was it a fuck up or did someone want the crew taken out, and if the boy was collateral damage, well, tough?’
Shay scrunched his nose at the smell of burning flesh and plastic. It happened sometimes when he recalled that night. He was convinced there was some bit of flesh stuck up his nostrils. He had shoved all sorts of nasal sprays up there, but he could not shift the smell.
‘This is not a conversation to have over the phone. You need to come in. Get yourself sorted out. Think of your future.’
Shay was caught by a silhouette of the children by the waters’ edge, leaning back and throwing the bread in as far as they could.
‘My future. Right.’
He hung up and dumped the phone into his pocket. He ran his finger along his nose and felt the zigzag of the bone. The smell had gone.
Swans, ducks, waterhens and seagulls jostled in front of Charlie and Molly, competing for the scraps. Shay stood behind the kids.
That familiar sick feeling spread across the pit of his stomach.
How blinkered I’ve been for so many years. Obsessed about getting back into the force, thinking it would get my life back. And I was willing to put my family at risk for it. What a fucking idiot.
Shay closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the sun on his cheeks and willed the heat to melt his demons away.
He placed a hand on Charlie’s head and looked ruefully at the scars cutting across the back of his skin.
A swan cast its wings up like a cupped hand and glided over to the far side. Shay watched it float away, his focus turning to the right when a dog barked.
Shay was startled when he looked over.
A slight figure leaned back against a concrete base under the bridge. His legs were stretched out straight, one wrapped in a big cast. Two grey crutches lay against him. Bowie at his side.
The kids were shouting, but it sounded like their voices were inside a glass bottle.
Shay looked at the cast again.
He jolted at the images. Jig’s small black hand sticking up in the air from behind the block of a wall, the tips of his fingers on fire. The heat of the block as he forced himself against it, cutting his hands deep with the effort. The terrible crunch and screams as he heaved and pushed the block away. The state of the boy when he saw him: passed out, scarred in black and red, parts of him smouldering. He’d shouted at Jig to rouse him, thinking he was dead. And, as he lifted and dragged the boy away, a sheet of roofing cut into the ground, right where Jig had been.
Shay’s eyes blinked and his mind shuddered as the images evaporated like spirits. But the smell was back.
Jig had survived. Unlike Leo and two gang members.
The bruising and burn marks on Shay’s palms and fingers ached.
‘Lads, let’s cross over,’ he said.
He felt like he was weighed down as he pushed himself across the bridge. He hadn’t seen Jig since that night.
Coming down the far side, Shay was taken aback as Jig shifted himself around. He was still badly scorched. His face and neck, the only skin visible, was red with a dark black tinge. There were scars, a right big one on his forehead. His whole left side looked thinner, as if it had been flattened.
Bowie barked and came over to Shay, nuzzled his hard head against his leg and waddled back.
Jig shifted his weight to his right side. His left hand was covered in a padded glove. There was a cast of some sort on his left arm bulging under his top. His right hand was bandaged. The big cast on his left leg was emblazoned with graffiti and images. ‘I Beat the IRA Rocket’ boasted one.
‘Shayo.’
Shay saw Jig’s lips move, but didn’t hear the words.
‘Alright?’ Jig added.
Shay didn’t respond and scowled at the boy.
‘Thanks for . . . that night,’ Jig said, faltering, lowering his face.
Shay blinked. Everything had changed. There was a deeper connection now with the boy. What kind, he didn’t know.
‘Thought you were still in hospital,’ Shay said eventually.
‘Got out, just yesterday. Couldn’t wait.’
‘How’s the . . .’ Shay said, pointing to the leg.
‘Docs said the breaks will heal. Eventually anyways.’
Shay nodded.
‘And the burns?’
‘They does be killing me. Might need grafts or something.’
Shay struggled to identify what emotions he was feeling.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good.’
Shay stood there, just looking at Jig. He looked older.
The night was still a blur. His brain seemed to play it back to him in sections – when the explosion went off, the chaos at the scene, Jig in his arms and the mad journey to hospital.
‘Ya not coaching no more?’ Jig asked.
Shay came to. He shook his head.
‘I’m giving it a break, Jig. I’m not sure about going back.’
‘Ya should. Spikey was in with me in hospital, says they miss ya wrecking their heads.’
Shay smiled. He watched Jig shift and use his crutch to pull something out from behind the concrete base. He laughed when he saw a football. Bowie barked at it.
Jig tipped it with the crutch over to his right foot, pulled himself up with the second crutch and side-footed it over to Shay, directing it bang on to Shay’s feet.
Shay brought the ball out and tapped it to Jig’s right foot. Jig trapped it neatly, though Shay could see him grimace at the strain.
‘See you down at training then,’ Shay said. ‘When you’re healed.’
Jig looked down at the ball and nodded.
Shay wondered, would Jig ever play again?
Football was his best ticket out of gangland. What’s his future now?
But he couldn’t dwell on such things. He just wasn’t up to it.
‘Come on, kids,’ Shay said, feeling a need to keep walking.
‘I owe ya one,’ Jig called out.
Shay looked over his shoulder. He stared at Jig, who held his gaze, then he nodded to the boy.
He walked on with the kids in silence for a few seconds, under the protective cover of the rustling branches.
‘Is he going to die too?’ Molly asked.
‘Jig? No, he’ll be okay.’
Charlie tugged at him.
‘Look at swan.’
The swan had only a small patch of brown and grey feathers left. The rest of him was silky white.
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, Molly.’
‘You said daddy and mommy swans stay together for ever.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Will you and Mommy stay together?’
Shay bent down and pulled them close. He wanted to reassure them. But what could he say?
‘I don’t know, lads. Daddy thought he was looking after you and Mommy, but he wasn’t. We’ll just have to see what happens. But we both love you. Remember that.’
He kissed them on their foreheads and stood up, clasping their hands.
The light was being sucked back up the canal as the evening folded. The sparkling oranges and yellows overhead dulled to a browny grey.
Shay’s shoulders ached at the sudden drop in light and temperature. His cheeks stung at the cold.
He heard a noise behind. A growl.
He stopped, his body tensing.
Behind him, stones and glass crunched and split under the weight of wheels. He heard a window slide down.
Shay gripped the kids’ hands tight.
There was no mistaking the voice.
‘Alright, Jig. How’s me little soldier?’
Acknowledgements
Firstly, and most importantly, a big thank you to my wife, Jacinta. She has had to put up with a lot over eight long years. But she has always given me full support, particularly when I needed it. She picked me up, gave me a hug and pushed me on.
My children too have suffered, through an often absent/absent-minded father or, as they sometimes described me, “a grump with a hump”. They too encouraged me when I needed it.
A big thank you to my mother, Mona. I used her dining room on and off, for periods of days, over the last eight years, which also enabled me to spend time with her. A thank you to my late dad, Donal, whose love of Agatha Christie has stayed with me.
In terms of practical support, top of the list is publicist and agent (though not my agent), advisor, fellow boys’ football manager and friend, Peter O’Connell.
From early on, when he offered to read the first few chapters, all the way to reading 120,000-plus words of a late draft (and giving direct pointers on a major structural edit) and advising me about agents and publishers, Peter has been there throughout. Thank you, Peter.
Other people who provided significant support include readers of the novel. These include crime author Andrea Carter, who has continued to offer me advice. Also thanks to Dearbhail McDonald for reading the novel and offering her support.
Fellow Black & White author and Irish Examiner journalist Ann O’Loughlin has been a constant source of support and advice. Thanks, Ann.
Huge thanks must go out to those gardaí – of all ranks – who provided me with their time, knowledge and insight, particularly the one who read the entire novel for me.
I want to acknowledge community workers and drug project workers who I have been fortunate enough to know over many years. My experiences with them influenced this novel considerably. One of them, Graham Ryall, read part of a very early, and very rough, draft.
Major thanks to the Irish Crime Fiction Writers’ Group and all its members. I want to give particular thanks to Laurence O’Bryan, who organised both this group and another one I attended. Thanks to Carolann Copland, who also helped organise the meetings.
Thanks to others who, at differing stages, read chapters, including Seán McCárthaigh, Caroline O’Doherty, Nicole Jagusch and Sinéad Crowley and to the advice of Louise Phillips.
Thanks also to Conor Kostick and his ‘Finish Your Novel’ course I attended at the Irish Writers’ Centre.
Thanks to the Arts Council of Ireland, who saw enough promise in my early work to give me an emerging writer literature bursary.
All of which brings me to key people in securing publication: scout, author and publishing guru Vanessa O’Loughlin and my agent Ger Nichol, whose belief in my novel and professional assistance has been invaluable.
Last, and definitely not least, thanks to all the team at Black & White Publishing.
Cormac O'Keeffe, Black Water
