Paddy Nemesis, page 10
- There were no old times Jack.
- Ah well, I'm sure we could find something to discuss.
- Such as?
- Drugs, lots and lots of drugs, and if you know of people in the know. They’re coming up the Shannon tonight and being put into a big truck to Boyle.
- Not in the slightest bit tempting, I don't know what your talking about.
- Sure you don't, there's a bar on bridge street called Jacksons, give me an hour.
- Why?
- Because you wouldn't want me to accidentally mention to the electorate about 50k that you siphoned off to help dampen down the coup, now sitting in a Swiss bank earning 20%.
Bang! - Phone down.
Fucking politicians.
It wasn't in a Swiss bank account, I'm not Jason Bourne. It was the deposit on the flat that's now not worth the paper its written on.
Fucking politicians.
Maybe Patrick would come down, maybe by himself, maybe with a small army. Me, the little fucking upstart, blackmailing the soon-to-be-crowned First Minister, and former IRA head honcho. What he'll soon understand when I'm less angry with Ronan - the world - is that we both have a vested interest in what I was gonna ask him.
The shit state of the roads in this town. Pot holes creating chicanes to avoid mangled axles. Pot holes that are older than me, and will no doubt be there after I die.
Fucking politicians.
My sense of morality after seeing Sarah faded after I dabbed a bit of sherbert on my thumb and have a sniff, I'll use the cheapest excuse in the book and use tiredness as purely the only reason, keeping me alert and ready to rock ‘n’ roll.
I keep my head down – focussed. Keeping everything within the ball of pure rage - venom, hell-spawn enveloping. Then the clarity seeps through my pores, I see Rafferty’s over on the right hand side and I slow my pace, allowing the coke to peel away the shadow and make my adrenaline gland do what it’s paid for. I stand by the department store, Boles of Boyle and look over at the door to the pub. I can't see inside the frosted windows unless I'm stood right outside, and I'd rather head straight on in and cause unannounced violence rather than face any pre-empted retaliation. Who knows how many cronies Ronan had in there. My beef wasn't with them, but I would be quite content to engage then in the Irish Queensbury rules, where anything goes. Finnegan walks past me, looks up and I feign a slap, he ducks, my work there was done.
I look to see if there's any traffic coming up – it’s clear. I cross over, bee-line for the door, couple of empty barrels out, waiting on the drayman and I step onto the porch, and in the door on the left, leaning my right shoulder in to open it, so my left hand is free to punch the fuck out of whoever comes out at me.
As soon as the door is open my chest is compressed by the baseline of Poison by the Prodigy. The bar was where I always remembered it, but it obviously hadn't been cleaned since the last time I was there. The young one behind the bar was Rafferty’s daughter. Late teens, and high as a kite, watching the tv high up on the wall, picking at scabs on her arm to detract away from the scabs on her face. She didn't notice me come in, neither did the three lads playing pool out in the back. The pub looked bleached of all it’s colour. A photo negative of a kitten being drowned.
What the fuck was going on? My old man would have never had this, he'd have bollocked old man Rafferty and made sure that the right people were inside listening to Christy Moore. I sit on the stool that looks least likely to stab my arse with a rusty spring, and when the daughter finally acknowledges me I point at the guinness pump. I turn round to the right to see the plastic gangsters shouting shit, and banging their hands on the table to the beat, great fucking tune and the bass mixes with my adrenaline and I put into practice a plan of action. The mixture of steroids and coke, throw in some old-skool rave and I know I'm gonna come out worse off.
One of them walks ‘round the table, lumberjack shirt, rolled up sleeves and muscles that had been chemically enhanced. His limp was a giveaway, his left leg trailing behind the right, his knee must have been caved in at some point and that would be my first point of attack. Hopefully that would cause a few seconds of shock and confusion, enough for me to get a boot into one of the other’s bollocks and then just wing the rest. That's only if these fellas were with Ronan. The other two were smaller in stature than the one with the limp, but that doesn't mean they would go down any easier. Just as the jacks door behind the pool table opens, the cue ball gets kicked off the table and bounces in my direction, hitting me on the leg, causing a wee annoyance more than anything and as the lad says sorry, I pick up the cue ball and rub my shin bone at the same time.
The cue ball is heavy enough and I look at the lad coming out of the toilet wiping his nose. Ronan, the coked-up cunt, looking at me, not a clue who I am. I didn't know the other three - not local lads. The fella with the limp comes over to get the ball, not apologising anymore and four pairs of eyes are trained on me now, I move the ball into my left hand, the bass-line of Poison fading, and the jukebox plays Setting Sun by the Chemical Brothers, they may be morons but they had good taste in music.
Mr Limp stares at me and I'm casually looking at Ronan, the man, the legend. Hitting Sarah, playing football with my son, and I look at Mr Limp and say
- Sorry, you want your ball back?
Boot him straight in his right knee and goes down like a house of cards, screaming in agony.
- Here’s your fucking ball back.
And I launch a baseball pitch at the nearest of the other two goons, hits him flush on the nose and the blood pours as his hands raise up to his face and he goes down as well. If only I'd a camera to capture Ronan and his pals faces - a Kodak moment. I'm on my feet and walk straight over to the third man, picking up a cue from the rack. My hand turns it upside down so I can swing the fat end. I boot the third man in the bollocks so hard it felt like the nutcracker suite and he bangs himself down hard on his knees, and I see Sarah in my mind, hands up to protect herself as he weighs in with punches, and I swing the cue and catch him on the side of his head, knocking him off to the side, his eyes roll back. I drop the cue and grab his shirt, close enough to kiss
- You're not welcome in Kiltycreighton anymore, you're not welcome in Boyle anymore. Stay the fuck..
He blacks out, I slap his face with the back of my hand and he wakes.
- Stay the fuck away from Sarah or I'll flay your skin off you.
And then I kiss him, my forehead splitting his nose and I drop him onto the floor, I turn to walk out and pass back through the bar - now totally vacant, the young one on her knees behind the jump, her favoured position. As I shut the door behind me, the sound of Setting Sun still drumming out its beat is still audible.
I button up my coat and walk round to the cop shop.
Chapter 10
Monsoon shower refreshment, I've exorcised the demons and built up an adrenaline reserve that could fill up the Hoover dam. The problem is though - if I've to head back to Dublin after this, I'd leave Sarah and Michael vulnerable. Ronan doesn't know he's a fucking jaffa, but I'm sure as fuck when he gets out of casualty he'll gun for her. This job needs to be fucking quick - like now quick. Talk about going off map, I created my own landscape. Cartographers would have a field day with my mind.
I head into the newsagents on the crossroads, get another 20 deck and light up as soon as I'm outside. I Look back up at Raffertys and nobodies coming in or going out.
Like a maelstrom, I kicked up a whirlpool and got the fuck out before drowning.
I want to rip Glen's eyes out. How has he allowed the town to turn to shit? Clearly someone’s pulling the strings, and this shipment I'm hijacking certainly hasn't been the first to go through town. Ronan and his goons are no doubt involved, it’s just too easy to dismiss - but something isn't adding up here. The economy seems to rely only on drink and drugs, the auld triangle had certainly been mangled beyond recognition.
It would be fair to say I'm a confident mixture of anger and bemusement. Boyle never had that much going for it, the same as any small town in the arse-end of nowhere. The population was small, the houses were painted in vibrant colours and the front doors were always open. Crime? What crime. When I was growing up, before my old man became a wife-beater and I thought brunch ice creams were the only thing to eat, there was no crime. No burglaries, drugs or fighting. Childhood memories of the Herald having nothing to report - apart from turf-cutting championships and the local Rose competition. Crime would be driving offences - and piss-poor ones at that. Now? My town has been infected with a carcinogen, the corner boys wired for fucking sound.
The state of the young ones - addicted and desperate.Raffertys turned into a cesspit. Sarah – a vapour trail of the woman I once knew, but still loved immensely. The town had been raped, and then kept in a drug-induced state - being pimped out to the anyone who wanted to fuck it for money. I've just appointed myself as the remedy. Sure who the fuck else would. The Gards are clearly doing fuck all - surprise surprise. And, if I hear the excuse of budget cuts or austerity measures I will poke my thumb into their eye until it pops ‘cause they were clearly in need of a white cane.
There were weekend nights when you'd go into any bar in town and see a friend, a family member, the woman of your dreams...now its a bucky bottle in the face and a fix to send you on your way. Reminds me of those Clint Eastwood westerns. The lost son returns and the evil cow-rancher has corrupted the town, the gold-rush too good an opportunity to miss. He fills the town with whores and whisky joints. Old Clint comes riding into town, isn't exactly happy with the situation and ends up executing the rancher.
Nobody walks round town with their head held high anymore. It’s like a constant shame follows them around. And, I love these people. When you stare into the abyss, it stares back. And I want to go and kick it in the cunt and tell the abyss to fuck off.
My phone beeps.
Patrick says he'll be an hour away and to meet him out by the abbey. I reply back:
- Grand.
I dial my boss’s number, and start walking off to the cop shop - Answers on the second ring.
- Dublin Environment Office?
- Clancy - TMT108Y, can you put me through to Tom Bale?
- Please hold.
Slowing the pace down, no footsteps behind me but I've ducked around the corner of the bank of Ireland and stopped.
- Jack?
- Any craic?
- Is that a joke?
- Er, no.
- Updates - I need updates - not you acting the prick.
- You didn't give me much to go on now did you, have you any more information for me?
- I have the ship’s details; she's called the Pearl Necklace, and was spotted by the Royal Navy about 150 miles out into the Atlantic two days ago, entered the Shannon yesterday morning.
- The Pearl Necklace?
- Yes.
How did he not get it?
- And Carrick tonight?
- In about seven hours.
- Right.
- Did you find out anything?
- Lad named Ronan. No surname or date of birth. Lives in Kiltycreighton, Bolye. For certain he’s involved but he’s not the head honcho. He's out of the way.
- Permanently?
- No, too public. But, if he shows up tonight he won't be here tomorrow. Whoever is shipping this stuff in is siphoning off some of the gear. The town is in a permanent stasis between conscious and unconscious. All the kids are on something and most of the adults too. It’s as if by keeping the populous numb, it’s easier to move the gear around without being noticed. It’s a fucking travesty. Whoever is running this is local - and I can't wait to end this all.
- Good. Any run-ins?
- What do you think?
- Just do the fucking job.
I bang the phone down.
He didn't even give a fuck about Ronan, or my town. The cynical monotone of his voice, desperate for the biggest fix of his life, stay out of trouble, get to Carrick and seek out the fucking Pearl Necklace.
Its just gone 2pm. Where's Glen?
Boyle Police Station is up on the right, and set back off the road. The brickwork is a shitty brown colour, more a morgue than a bastion of public protection. The main entrance had changed since the last time I was here, now automatic doors and air conditioning greet me as I sauntered in, looking casual and nonchalant. I should be given the best actor Oscar.
The fat, sweaty, close-to-retirement desk sergeant was on the phone talking GAA.
He didn't look up to see me enter, 2 CCTV cameras on either side of the desk facing out into the reception, frayed carpets and screwed-down benches. I pick the camera over the sergeant’s left shoulder to stare into, imagining Glen out back, viewing the screen. Burning holes into his eyes, daring him to come out to me.
I walk over to the desk, the sergeant looks up and without saying a word to me ‘cause he's clearly engrossed in talking bollocks, nods over to the screwed-down bench suggesting I take a seat rather than interrupt him. What if this was an emergency? Actually it was, I get my left hand in my pocket and lean over the desk with my right hand and press down the receiver on the phone, pulling out my warrant card at the same time just as he's about to clout me.....
He reads the words Sergeant Jack Clancy G2....shrinks back down
- Good thinking sergeant
- What can I do for you sergeant?
- Where are you from, you’re not local
- Limerick, used to live in Patricks Well, 272 days ‘til retirement and they move me here.
- Not liking it?
- Ah sure you know it’s quiet enough.
- Is it?
- Nothing ever happens here.
- Maybe you should burn a bit of that off, and take a walk round town - see what's going on under your nose.
He blushed, looked around for something to occupy his hands.
- How long have you been off the smokes?
- Since I've been here, the wife suggested it. Too expensive you know. Fucking miss them boy.
- Have my deck - I've only had the one.
This sergeant was counting down the days ‘til he was a pensioner. He’d been dragged up here by his wife, so he could survive his final year. Limerick wasn't as bad as the press made out, "stab city" it certainly wasn't, but where you find a bag-full of cunts there are always puncture wounds. He hadn't a balls clue about the goings on in Boyle, County Roscommon, and I didn’t feel like pissing on his parade.
- Ah no, you’re grand - but thanks for the offer.
- Sarge, you’re about as itchy as an old woman’s cunt, take them.
I handed the deck over to him, and he took them without a second glance or protest.
He smiled and the warmth of his innocence and breaking the wife’s rules enveloped me.
- You don't act like a spook.
- I don't act like myself, but knock yourself out. What time are you off?
- Nine.
- Where do you and the woman live?
- Other side of Loch Key.
- Head home early boss, head home and lock the door. A Storm’s coming.
He was looking at me now. The dead, lowered tone in my voice, the pleading with the old man, the knowledge that no lie detector test was required.
- Quiet town eh?
- Not tonight. Who are you close to in here?
- Here?
- Here.
- Ah sure nobody really, just myself as the fella says. Loads of young lads ‘round here trying to make a name for themselves, not the way it used to be.
- Trust me, it will be again - but head on home early ok, throw a sickie or whatever but get the hell out of dodge tonight.
- Serious?
- Like a Vatican meeting about children.
- Fuck
- Indeed.
- The name’s Phil.
- Jack.
Handshake like a vice. I liked Phil, he reminded me of my granddad, the soft eyes pushed in by the folds of fatty tissue from years on the piss.
- Phil, I'm looking for an old friend of mine, don't know if he's on duty or not, Glen Doyle.
- Ah sure, I know Sergeant Doyle.
- Friends?
- Like Ike and Tina.
- Ok, is he around?
- He’s down in custody with a suspect, joy rider, only a pup.
- May I?
I moved towards the secure door out to the bowels of the station. Phil moves his hand under the desk to press the button that unlocks the door. The vacuum created by the sealed door as it opens chills me. It’s been a long time since I've been through to the back of the station. One of my last memories of this place, Glen and I were working on a deterrent to prevent boy racers from being on the roads. I'd suggested either ramming them off the road or putting a bag of sugar into the engine through the fuel cap. Glen suggested a revoke of their licence and further training on road safety. I suggested he was on drugs to think that would work. It was an off the cuff, flippant comment. Thinking back, maybe I was right.
I went into the reception area to thank Phil again. His gut must have been lodged under the desk because as he swivelled his chair, creaking under his weight, he looked like a capital D, the buttons ready to pop off his shirt. He smiled a warm innocent smile to me, sweating under the low wattage lights and gave his hand for me to shake again.
- Well I hope whatever you’re here to find, you'll find it soon enough.
- Thanks Phil, just trying a damage limitation approach, so head on home when you can. If you get anyone coming in from Raffertys, you haven't seen me - and try not to do too much in the way of reporting.
- Should I expect to be doing a report soon?
- Maybe - when they regain consciousness. I would like some trust on your part and be assured that it was an absolute necessity. It'll all be over by this time tomorrow.
With that a nod and a smile and Phil's chair creaked as he swivelled round to face out into the reception. I hope he takes my advice.
I go through another set of doors and into a dull corridor that reeked of industrial cleaning fluids, the halogen light that ran the whole length of the corridor was flickering intermittently - an epileptics wet dream. There were three doors either side of the corridor which required a swipe card for entrance. Very security conscious, they even had the sense to put a lock on the armoury - the windows blacked out so you can't even see what they have onsite. Never figured out the sense in having an armoury here, everything must be collecting several year’s worth of dust. The dome shaped CCTV cameras dotted the corridor like blackheads. I wondered if I was being watched - didn't give a fuck if I was. My hand was stinging from slapping Ronan, I clenched my fist and opened it a few times to get the sensation back and pushed through the doors at the end of the corridor. Signs on the back wall advised me to either go left to custody or right to the canteen, changing rooms or CCTV room. I had 45 minutes before I met Patrick at the abbey.
