Paddy Nemesis, page 12
He ran Ballymun. Nobody else wanted it. Nobody gave a fuck about it. He was reported to have killed key members of rival gangs, a "turf war" that could spread over the north-side, just so he could control Ballymun. In actual fact having spoken to one of my contacts in one of these rival gangs, my contact laughed it off by saying that any member of his gang who had been shot - would have been shot off the back of an internal dispute, nothing to do with O'Connell. He would have been more interested in what the papers had to say. It was probably himself who called up the papers "that fella who was nailed to the ground in the sign of the cross, it was that O'Connell's lot who done for him". My contact said nobody in their right mind wanted Ballymun, sure it was all going to be knocked down anyway.
And therein lay the problem. The Council believed if O'Connell and his band of merry men went, then it would be a lot easier to get the remaining residents out. No heroin, no point staying, move and buy it somewhere else.
Move them to Boyle.
So I met with the powers that be, the masters of the Celtic Tiger who shared their concerns about the need to gentrify, to sweep the rubble under the carpet and to have plausible deniability if it all went tits up.
I followed O'Connell for a week. I could have followed him for two days, he was a creature of habit, a broken record of violent sex with his wife, breakfast, out with the boys for a tour of his wealth, sat in his black land rover while the boys went out and dealt. He always had a sentry outside the car whilst he spent his time on the phone. The sentry had two handguns inside his waistband at the rear. He thought he was Nicholas Cage in Face/Off and was clearly a wanker.
I'd two weeks to do this in. I needed to blend in, quickly. I set myself up in tower three on the east side of the block on the 10th floor. All of the residents had gone and it was easy enough to get through the citex as I'd been given keys to the city. I smoked the weakest heroin joints, less addictive and only gave me a similar high to willow. I arrived at 10:30 hours, half hour before O'Connell arrived. He always parked in the forecourt in front of the east side of tower three.
There was never anyone with me in the the hours I waited and watched. On the day I killed him I had company.
I'd got up to the 10th and sat up there overlooking the forecourt, I'd prepared my rifle and it was resting in its case next to me, all primed and ready to rock n roll.
I heard movement coming down the stairwell above me, something being wheeled. I took out my Glock and removed the safety, aiming at nothing but ready for whatever it was about to come into my sight. It was a pushchair with an 18 month old boy in it.
And I thought I looked dirty.
I put the safety on and slipped the gun back inside my jacket. His mother, thinking back, looked similar to the girl I saw with Jackie last night. Although the girl last night could have been a model compared to the mother.
She wore a green velour tracksuit, a rip in the crotch which revealed a pair of what would have been at some point white knickers. Her fingernails were caked with dirt like she'd been scraping at the ground like some wild animal. Her face was emaciated and hollow her eyes so bloodshot I couldn't tell what colour they were. She looked through me like I wasn't even there. Her child looked like he never had been given a bath.
She rolled her sleeve down and got her hand in under the pushchair and pulled out a make-up bag.
- Getting carried away with myself.
She opened it up to reveal the necessary ingredients for a smack head, rusted Uri Geller spoon, syringe, strap, lighter and a bag of white powdered gold. I was smoking a roll-up, clearing my head of the weak fix, as she took the strap and tied it around her upper arm. The dead veins and tracks were too hard not to notice, a good five years worth of addiction. How her son wasn't taken off her by the state is a tragedy. She started heating the powder in the spoon with the lighter, clearly not caring about her son’s discomfort, as he was battling to get out from under the straps and beginning to whinge. She didn't notice when he started crying, obviously having witnessed this sequence many times before.
- Shut up!
She started tapping her forearm to try to get up any vein to pump the poison into. Her son started screaming louder and tears streamed down his red cheeks.
- For fuck sake - shut up.
This only encouraged him more, it was torturous. I couldn't move because I'd spent the last few days working out the angle of the shot from here, not the 9th or 11th floor.
O'Connell’s car was pulling up on the forecourt – fuck, fuck. She had drawn the liquid into the syringe and brought it to her vein, which she punctured and drew some blood up into. The child was screaming blue murder, and without saying a word, she took her right hand off the plunger and slapped her son across the face with the back of her hand.
- I fucking said shut up.
I brought up some vomit and spat it into the drain to my right....I looked in disgust and anger as she went back to pushing the plunger down as if what had just happened, hadn't. Her eyes opened briefly, pupils massively dilated and she looked at me and smiled then leaned backwards, the smack taking instant effect.
I looked at her son, massive welts from her fingers on the left side of his cheek, she had knocked him unconscious, she was some vile cunt. I checked his pulse and breathing, all normal and I opened his mouth to see if there was any food in there or if he'd swallowed his tongue, he hadn't. He didn't need a life like this. I was just about to un-strap him, abort the mission, wait till tomorrow, I was gonna take him to the social and report his mum, give him a better chance. I couldn't do anything with her in the state she was in.
I was getting him out of the chair, getting the strap of my rifle bag over my left shoulder and I needed a quick exit so O'Connell's dealers wouldn't see me leave the tower with an unconscious baby in tow. I didn't even question how I get myself into these situations.
I looked at his mother, her skin was a waxy yellow, barely stretching over the bones that were all that was left of her body. There was a milky-white substance coming out of the corner of he mouth and left nostril. She was OD'ing. Her Kidney's must have begun to fail months, if not years ago. How she was ever big enough to bear a child, god only knows - she looked like a famine victim - just with fewer flies and no songs of lament.
I could literally see the other organs beginning to fail right before my eyes. The heroin must have been an anaesthetic of sorts, or she would have died in a screaming agony - the most disgusting death I have ever seen - and I've seen plenty. Her groin was soaked where she wet herself, her body expelling all waste products, the needle still stuck in her vein.
This changed things.
I looked over into the forecourt, the land rover was right below me, why had they parked there, did he know? O'Connell’s dealers were on the other side of the forecourt in the underpass between towers one and two, nothing unusual there, and the sentry was walking around the car as per. I looked at where the car was normally parked and there was red diesel on the ground. O'Connell musn't have wanted that shite on the wheels, there would be no grip and the car would have slipped on the road like Bambi on ice.
I'd watched too much A-Team as a kid but I could feel a plan coming together.
I put the baby back in his chair, unzipped the rifle and its loaded cartridge of six shots, I rested it by the look-out point and realised I'd about a minute to do this in.
I checked her pulse and breathing first, nothing. If there was a de-fib here, I wouldn't have used it. She was brain-dead enough but the lack of oxygen would have killed off the remaining brain cells, and I would have chosen to not resuscitate her, I may be playing God - but then the real God was a pussy, and should have killed her off years ago. I lifted her up by the arms and dragged her over to the view-point.
Fuck me, why are dead people so fucking heavy?
I looked over and the two dealers had a queue, the sentry looked bored, now was the moment.
I lifted up the waste of space, junkie mother and pushed her up and over the gap and let gravity do the rest. It wasn't a peaceful fall from grace, she went 360 degrees and it wasn't slow in my mind at all, quite the opposite. Before she hit the roof of the car, I got the rifle and aimed it at the two lads in the underpass, I had them both in my sights. Crash - exploding glass, a shriek from Nicholas Cage and the two lads look up towards the car, their customers star burst and the lads begin to run towards the car. First shot hits the guy on the left just above the bridge of his nose, a mist of blood and brain out of the back of his head and before he's fallen, I've swivelled round to the guy on the right, who's instinctively ducked down from the first shot but is still running. The second shot enters his skull at the top of his hairline, peeling the skin on the top of his head back. The flaps of hair-covered skin revealed - for a fraction of a millionth of a second his skull- and the bullet travelled down through his brain and exited at the top of his spinal column. Paralysed and dead but no need for a wheelchair to take him to his grave.
I then had to wish for an element of luck as I brought the scope down to the red diesel, the ground around it wasn't wet so I figured the bullet ricocheting off the tarmac would create enough sparks. I fired and the whoomp of the flame followed by the bang of the sudden expulsion of oxygen made me move back from the scope. Funny thing is, when a bullet hits the ground, it doesn't bounce back off it, it travels along the ground at a greatly reduced speed.
Before the second guy had fallen, the third bullet had shattered his right foot, I stood up, the sentry had turned into a statue, only his head moving from the junkie flesh on top of his boss’ car to the sudden explosion behind the land rover. The fourth bullet entered the top of his head, it exploded like a melon being dropped from a great height, the bullet travelled through the upper part of his body, pulping all vital organs, and exited through the back of his thigh. I swivelled left and O'Connell was just getting out of the car - stupidly. The roof of his car was caved in and the explosion had tempted him out of his sanctuary. I saw a tattoo of a Fighting Irish Leprechaun on the back of his left ear and fired at it, the back of his skull came away and his brain slid out the hole. One last bullet, I fired it into the bonnet of the land rover and I hit the jackpot, it blew, sending bits of scorched flesh across the forecourt and up in the air, the heat was intense.
I knelt back down, bagged the rifle, grabbed the still unconscious child and ran down the stairs, two at a time, I got to the ground floor, opened the Sitex and walked across to my car and drove to the airport. I'd thrown the boys mother off the 10th floor landing two minutes prior. Fuck I was good.
I drove up to the airport and back out towards Artane, I drove to the Rotunda to see the friend who'd called me about the young prostitute before I killed Dermot Kay. I asked him to expect a new arrival and to call up social services in advance. The boy was dazed and confused as I handed him over.
He asked me what the fuck was this and I just replied casualties of war. Before he could question me further I'd got back in the car and driven off. I would never give his name away because he helped me break so many moral and legal laws and he's still up at the Rotunda, I would never want him to suffer a similar fate to my own.
Did I do the right thing?
If I was told I didn't, you wouldn't be able to say much more as you'd be eating through a straw for the rest of your meagre fucking life.
Patrick’s car drew up next to me, I'd smoked my way through all but one of the smokes I ponced back off Phil.
It’s always nice to reminisce.
Patrick said he'd give me five minutes but that was four minutes and 59 seconds too long. I asked if he still said that to Ian Paisley or were we all now friends with benefits, a booty call where you really don't wanna get fucked in the arse? He told me to fuck up and get in the car.
I didn't recognise the driver, but still didn't mean he was the holder of a clean licence and wrap sheet. All those lads who got released off the back of the Good Friday agreement still needed day jobs, and sure, just cause we were on the same religious side didn't mean I'd be invited round for Christmas dinner.
We drove off towards Forrest Park.
- How was Sligo?
- Who gives a fuck about Sligo, you fucking attempt to blackmail me again and some mutual friends can always come down and batter your knees in for starters.
- If I was to say to catch yourself on, would you still be my friend?
Why does no one ever get my sense of fucking humour and instead just melt my face with their eyes?
- Thin fucking ice my boy.
- Alright, let's cut this foreplay shit out and get straight to the fucking. I need some information and to know if some of the old boys are involved and I'm saying no more until we get out to Forrest Park.
- The drive will take five minutes.
- Well tell your man Friday to put his fucking foot down because this could bring you a fuck load of kudos.
- Give me something.
- A Billion Euro worth of coke is heading up the Shannon right now and I think some of your lads are involved and will be there tonight.
He addressed the driver:
- James..
A chauffeur called James, who's with me on the irony?
- Put your fucking foot down.
Chapter 13
Forrest Park was once private land, in the centre of it sat a big fuck-off mansion called Rockingham House. All I knew about it from my Granddad was that once a Protestant land-owner family lived there, lording it over the poor - who was pretty much everyone within a 10 mile radius of the house. There were stables and tunnels down to the lake for storage, which are still there now and which we used to cycle down at high speed when I was a kid, breaking just before we flipped head first into the water - there was an art in that.
Near by the lake the family had built a Gazebo overlooking castle island - quarter of a mile out from the shoreline. Rumour had it the monks, who lived on the island in the 17th century had built tunnels themselves, out to Keash Mountain about 10 miles away and one to where the gazebo now stood. It was never proved - another bullshit rumour like dogs can't look up.
I never saw the house, only in pictures, it burnt down in 1957. A fucking shame, Protestants had good taste in architecture. Like the Nazis - even though they were fascist cunts. What is even more of a shame is that some fuck wit had the idea of building a viewing tower where the house once stood. A monolith to all things 1970's, it was concrete, it was 100 feet tall and it was a monstrosity - and it still stands there today. The money could have been better spent by building a laser and writing "fuck the crown" on the moon.
On the road into the park, we drove under the two gate houses that once stood proud, and gave whoever entered them a taste of what was to come when the house was still there. Going under the second, the window frames and door were damaged beyond repair - splintered and warped. All the windows were broken - Young ones with nothing better to do than destroy something beautiful. The trees either side of the road provided a natural roof to the road, and we drove out and parked up by the lake. The gazebo was to my right, Castle Isand in front of me and to my left was a flat-pack, straight out of Ikea, pine-fresh centre for the park. I could smell the cheapness off it.
James brought the car to a halt, I could see two swans just lazing around, giving it the big I am with their nonchalant movements masked in graceful gliding across the water. I hoped they got cramp and went the way of the Belgrano.
It was quiet enough here, less than a handful of cars in the car park, a couple walking out towards the viewing tower, a couple of kids running out in front of the centre. Nobody paid any heed to us.
Patrick spoke to James, I itched with impatience, at least I hope it was impatience and not something I caught off Jackie.
I got out of the car and walked towards the shore, let the master and servant try to figure out a way to kill me off, pay me off or figure out I have no hidden fucking agenda I just want to go into tonight a bit less blinkered and greatly increasing my chances of seeing my son tomorrow.
I looked up at castle island and memories of warm June nights when I was a teen, stealing a boat, bringing over a stereo, food and beers. Me, Sarah and me mates fucking around, getting stoned, lighting fires and miles away from the mainland, dreaming of setting up our own Utopia: free from parents, money for the poor, everyone treated equally as long as we were doing well for ourselves where we could afford private education for our children. Champagne Socialism for generation x.
I heard James getting out, I looked back and saw him opening the door for
Patrick. He walked over to me.
- Leave your bag here.
- No.
- Then we stay here.
- Fuck man - what do you think I'm gonna do, shoot you, you’re my golden ticket, I'm yours. I've no interest in you apart from becoming first minister.
- Take out the magazine and leave it here.
- I have more than one.
- They stay here too.
- Honesty is the best policy eh?
- So I hear.
I took out the Glock and unclipped the magazine, dropped it into my right hand then put it in my jacket pocket. I opened up my bag wide enough for Patrick to look into and took out the other two magazines and put them in the same pocket.
- I’m not leaving them here with Alfred, you've seen inside the bag, you've seen what I've done and if I have to fuck around and dance to your song anymore then I will lose my calm exterior fairly fucking quickly. Fuck me round like this anymore and I'll have no problem going public on our little partnership, you've more to lose than me.
- OK.
- OK? O fucking k? - fuck me. Memory loss is a bitch isn't it?
- What have you for me?
- Not here.
- Let’s walk.
- OK president fucking Obama.
We followed the shoreline round to the quay, the Ikea centre on our left and walked up to the domed ice house, it was quiet enough and still within site of the car and James -who I would imagine hadn't taken his eyes off us all the way over.
