Paddy Nemesis, page 13
I explained I didn't have enough time to go through all what I knew, I omitted the government’s plans in these austere times to steal the drugs and sell them back out on the streets, not using the income to support rehabilitation but to fund themselves out of getting fucked over by the EU.
I told him that a boat would be docking in Carrick tonight with a valuable cargo on it, my job was to take out the crew and whoever was meeting them, and ensure that the cargo was seized. I said anything coming in of that value would have surely been flagged up to our friends in the north, who having grabbed the Carmelite candle with both hands needed something to do - apart from shooting innocent kids and bombing shopping centres.
- Funny.
I said there's a group in Boyle running this, I threw him a bone in the shape of Ronan but I didn't believe he could in any way, shape or form be the head fella. But this group - with their serious finances, ways and means, and being so close to the border, the ’Ra surely must be overseeing this - and did Patrick have any idea of who could be involved? If his former colleagues were involved, I'd take them out and he can go live to the public tomorrow, shopping them. Showing how he took a massive stance against criminality and the evils of drugs. That regardless of what side did what, he was there for every man woman and child of Northern Ireland.
- What will happen to the drugs?
- Seized then destroyed I guess.
- You guess?
- I’m not a Gard am I? Any seizures in the past have been incinerated within six weeks of capture.
- Are you aware of micro-climates?
- Pockets of weather that only cover a small area. Could be raining here but not half a mile down the road.
- Pretty much.
- Well Boyle is like that.
- Ah sure, it always rains in Boyle.
- I don't mean as a micro-climate but as a micro-economy. What happens in Boyle doesn't happen anywhere else in the country.
- Right?
This wasn't necessarily what I wanted to hear - because I'd clearly been so stupid not realising, and that my old man had either got greedy or figured out the cover up and was about to expose it.
- What are you telling me Pat?
And he told me: This set up had been going on for at least 35 years, but only in the last 10 years focusing on the import of class A. Pretty much around the time of the ceasefire. Prior to that, more money than sense was either coming in via Noraid, Libya or fundraisers in London - you name it.
- So the money had to be laundered?
Why did I think, especially now with businesses going bust every day and the Republic begging for a bail-out from the EU, that all the pubs and bars in a town where a majority of people are unemployed stayed open?
- Fuck.
Indeed.
The 'Ra had laundered their vast quantities of dirty cash through the pubs and bars. It was obvious.
No way could 30 or so venues stay open with a population of three thousand odd. It was simple and effective, racketeering the whole town, keeping them high on their own supply.
It was so fucking obvious, why had I not figured this out?
Keeping the whole town subversive by keeping them either drunk or stoned enabled a fairly sophisticated operation which supplied the North West , the North and Dublin. That's half the country if you include the counties run from Stormont.
Doctor the books in all the bars, you'd think they were packed out every night, keep the barrels coming in, selling the surplus to other bars in other towns at an inflated rate. Dirty money, money for bullets, money for semtex, clean money.
- There’s no need for bombs and bullets anymore.
There is always a need, them lads still think they are at war. This is now just about greed and being the big boys, them eastern European lads, the Russian mafia, bring over prostitutes, setting up protection rackets, small time shit.
- The big bully in the playground eh?
Something like that. We have the infrastructure, the know how, the history, this is our land to do what we want. We don't kill RUC officers anymore, we get them fucked up, film them with our prostitutes, smacked off their tits and get them killed via the political route. This time next year I'll be shaking hands with the Queen, my dirty, blood covered hands.
- What the fuck do you mean?
My stomach lurching downwards, looking over at James, sat on the bonnet of his car, hands behind his back. Patrick just looking back to nod.
- What the fuck was that?
Letting James know he was ok, that the conversation was nearly over.
- Is it?
If I hadn't it figured it out now, I may just not be as clever as he had me down for.
- You are fucking kidding me.
He was afraid that he wasn't. Wasn't it very convenient that he was only down the road in Sligo on the day his shipment was coming in? He's the respectable, sincere, baby-hugging, hand-shaking, factory-opening, teeth-whitening, family man and politician. A new way on the old road, hug a protestant, photo opportunity with Trimble or Paisley or the Queen. He'd never fire first at the army, or shoot a rocket at a passing patrol car, or put a coded message into the local papers. What was the point, he could get killed or heaven forbid arrested. Now? The glory of the political limelight awaits, first minister and still in the high command.
I was set-up in Belfast, a patsy, a gun for hire, plausible deniability. The lads I killed had figured out Patricks moonlighting. They were progressive republicans who wanted to totally move away from violence and saw Pat was keeping his fingers dirty with drug money, what a fucking ambassador, I felt nauseous.
- I guess this is the part where I die?
I opened the switchblade in my jacket pocket.
Clear line of sight on the front wheels of the car, five seconds to slot the magazine back into the Glock. Duck and roll, prick around, expect some return fire. I stood in front of Patrick, blocking James’ view. Wherever those kids and couple were, I couldn't see them anymore. I grabbed a fistful of Patrick's Saville Row suit - fucking British when he wants to be - and got my razor blade out, pulled it fully open and dug it into his left cheek. He squealed and I dug it deeper, the blood pouring onto my hands. I dug it in so much that I could see the blade pierce the inside of his mouth.
We knelt together as the first shot whizzed past me. James - running up towards us. I let go of Patrick, leaving the blade in his mouth, James was still running towards me. I got the clip out, grabbed the Glock - second shot nicks my shoulder and forces me back - I drop the gun. Still running, he’s now 50 metres away, shit fucking shot. I duck down, leaning forward, grab the gun, slot the magazine in, safety off – bang – his right knee smashed, falling forwards, gun out of his hands, on the floor screaming, I shoot him in the throat to shut him up.
I kneel over Patrick.
- Did you kill my dad?
Gurgle gurgle bubble bubble – shock. I twist the blade, the shriek of agony left me tempted to shoot him in the throat too but I needed to know. I needed to know everything. I took the blade out, and wiped it on his blood covered suit, placed it up against his right cheek.
- Did you kill my dad?
I'd gone too far, blood pissing out everywhere, vacant stare, I hadn't hit an artery but I may as well have, the amount of claret.
- You betrayed your country, your people and more importantly, you betrayed me. Didn't anyone ever tell you to never piss me off?
I applied pressure to the wound I'd made, I didn't want him to bleed out on me and die of a heart attack. Anyone looking on would think from the way I'm holding him that I was comforting him. A loving son, kneeling over his dying father. I never did this with my old man but the only people he betrayed were his family.
- If I let go of the wound, you will bleed out and if you don't answer me, I'll cut you again. Best be quick about it.
My right hand was keeping the wound on his left cheek closed, blood was still seeping through. I moved my left hand – the one with the blade in - from his right cheek to under his right eye. His fear focused on the pressure I applied, I was trying to scoop his eye out like an oyster from its shell.
Whisper, fragmented sentence, stuttering like a nervous child with a switchblade under his eye.
- Your Da wasn't part of this.
- I didn't fucking ask you that did I? Don't give me scraps ya traitorous cunt. I'm not playing fucking games, I'm gonna kill you one way or the other.
- He found out who was running the operation from Boyle. I was told and I ordered the kill but I don't like to get my hands dirty.
- Too much blood on them already. Who's running the operation here?
- Doesn’t matter, he knows what you are here for, you'll be dead soon after me.
- I very much doubt that.
With that, I dropped the blade and brought down the heel of my palm onto the bridge of Patricks nose, bursting it. Pushing the bone towards his brain. Fuck the idea of an open coffin, my da didn't get one. He bucked and I brought my heel down again and again and again, white light, violent sprays of red, he went limp and I kept banging the heel of my palm down again and again. I only stopped when I felt like I was going to pass out and I looked down at the destruction of Patricks face. It looked like a fleshy concave lens. I'd broken his nose, cheek bones and eye sockets, the front part of his skull had totally fractured and pushed into his brain.
I had killed the future first minister of Northern Ireland. Political saviour, member of the IRA's high council, drug runner and one of the men who killed my da. It wouldn't have mattered who he was, a nobody or a somebody, he tricked me, keeping me close, knowing my career choice and threatened by the possibility of what I'd just done ever happening.
I was in an awful lot of trouble now.
Good thing I've a voice recorder on my phone.
To me, this was just unfinished business from yesterday, that smack head cunt at Landsdowne had gotten away with just having the shit kicked out of him except I'd turned the volume up to 11 on this.
Still nobody around but someone would have heard the four shots fired and called the cops.
I dragged Patrick’s body towards the ice house, it felt like I was pulling a tonne weight. The ice house had a 10 foot drop into it. It was dark and I could barely make out the bottom. I dragged him up over the lip of the mouth, kicked him over and let gravity do the rest.
A couple of seconds later I heard glass smash under the dead weight of Patrick but I was already moving back to James. The wound in his throat was so wide and deep, I could see the top of his spine. I searched him first, got out his wallet with 300 euros and 300 British pounds. I pocketed that, looked through his credit cards and scrawled on the back of a donor card was today’s date, a time: “21:00 hrs” and "marina". Thank you so much James - the meet once the gear had been taken off the boat. Inside his jacket pocket was a couple of spare magazines for his H&K 9mm, and on the ground next to him was the firearm. Both the rounds and firearm got tucked in my inside right jacket pocket. His mobile was inside his suit jacket and I grabbed that for contacts and to text his Missus some filth.
I got my hands in under his shoulders, dragging him up and over into the ice house. My back was fucked. I jogged down to the lake and one of the Swans, facing away but just in front of me, didn't notice as I kneeled down and I wiped the blood off onto its feathers. It flapped its wings, squeaked and leant its neck round to take a bite out of me, I was ready enough for it and punched the Swan in the head. I hate fucking Swans. It wasn't lazily gliding across the water after that as it rushed off as fast as its little legs could kick.
There's a thought.
Patrick’s car, I now had transport.
I sheepishly tried the driver side door, it opened with no alarm, idiot - I thought. But then I don't think he imagined having to leave the car so quick to save his boss, forgetting the simple things like locking the door and even taking the key out of the ignition, not a great chauffeur or bodyguard for that matter. I knew the unionist terrorists weren't normally recognised as the most cleverest of men, but I would have thought James - as a republican martyr - would have been able to do the basics, There are some sneaky fuckers out there, I was one of them.
I knew the boys in blue or the boys in green wouldn't be too far away. I turned the engine over and it started straight away - this was a Mercedes after all - and I checked my mirrors, you can never be too safe, I stuck it into reverse, put my foot on the accelerator and pressed it down to the floor, took the handbrake off and shot backwards away from the lake. I fancied doing a quick 180, remembering my days as a Honda Civic boy racer, I turned the wheel left and brought up the handbrake taking my foot off the accelerator and the car lurched round so smoothly, pulling my body to the right. Outside, everything became a blur and when I came to a halt, I was facing the lake again.
- Fuck sake.
I'd done a 360, thank fuck there was nobody there to see the humiliating manoeuvre.
I did a three point turn and headed back out of the park, safety first.
Betrayed is the buzz word for how I felt at that moment. If I were psychotic enough I'd punch myself hard in the face for being so completely and utterly stupid and not realising I was being played.
Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Patrick had invited me in, knowing all along that I was too volatile and would one day seek vengeance. He gave me his bullshit electioneering schpiel, assurances of handshakes and progression. I was told with absolute sincerity that my role, my very secret, very dirty role would never be forgotten and how it was for the greater good of the whole of Ireland. In fact what I'd done was set Ireland back to the good old bad old days.
Was he a sociopath or a narcissist or a psychopath? The modern day version of the unholy trinity.
Stupid, stupid idiot.
He'd green-lighted my fathers death. He hadn't pulled the trigger but he had orchestrated the whole set up. He'd been the ultimate master of puppets, but I'd cut the strings then cut him and it felt good. I don't care about the more than certain repercussions because if I can do what I'd just done, I could get away with anything.
Instead of poking the hornets nest with a big stick, I drop kicked it and then stood there naked waiting to get stung.
The blood on my hands was sticking to the steering wheel. By the clock on the dashboard, it was just coming up to four. Only a few more hours to go. I suddenly felt drained. I needed to sleep for an eternity.
I drove out of the park, and turned right onto the
Carrick Road towards town. Drug paranoia hit and I felt the sounds of the sirens from all around. Units from Carrick and units from Boyle. I turned left onto a dirt track leading up to a farm that overlooked the road and immediately turned right into an overgrown field, drove a further 10 or so metres and cut the engine. There was a thick hedge or rose bush on my right which ran the whole road side length of the field, whoever was driving past couldn't see in and vice versa for me. I already had the car in reverse waiting for the police cars that never came to disappear and I waited for 10 minutes then switched the ignition, swinging the car out and back out onto the road.
No sirens.
Up to first and the wheels spun and kicked up gravel and I shot out and left.
The sweat had soaked the chair, as I moved forward, I could feel my shirt peeling off my back.
I figured there was one place I could go to and lay low. I missed the turning for town and headed home.
Chapter 14
I drove up the old Sligo road, climbing the Curlew Mountains. Not the quickest route home, but I could look over to my left and down onto the road we lived on, so I could look out for any flashing blue lights or parked up cop cars.
Nearing the top, I turned left onto a single lane road. Tufts of grass marking the central line and more potholes than an acne-scarred Brian Adams. I drove slowly down the road, not wanting to fuck up the chassis - an old Massey Ferguson tractor was coming out of a side lane a bit further down and turned up towards me. The old farmer in the cab was John Daley, he owned all the lush green land on my right, and fuck me - he was still alive. He used to smoke roll ups and put them out by spitting into the palm of his hand and stubbing them out on his wet hand. Glen and I used to think he wasn't the full shilling. Always had a tune to whistle when I helped him bail hay, a song in his head that he never knew the full lyrics of. I'm sure he used to sing Caledonia, but it could have been Seven Drunken Nights or Wannabe - he was that fucking tone deaf.
I pulled in to let him pass and he acknowledged me with a wink and wave of his hand, I raised my bloodied hand in return. The road rules of the wesht, acknowledge every driver you know with a brief wave and as my dad did, I acknowledged everyone. "Always nice to be nice son". He said, when I asked why he waved to people he didn't know. I thought - it would be nice if you were nice to us once in a while.
I got down to the bottom of the hill and drove up towards town; the house was set back from the road on my right.
Two things I noticed: There's new gravel down on the drive like chipped up slate and the house was now whitewashed when it used to be eggshell yellow for all the time I lived there. The front garden was freshly turfed, and greener than the first day at Wimbledon. Unless she'd won the lottery, she must have got a fella in there. Stabbing anger behind my eyes, how could she betray my dad? Fuck sake.
The front door was open and there was smoke coming out of the chimney. The smell of peat from the burning briquettes filling my lungs and evoking innocent memories.
I parked up out the front, killed the engine and just sat there - looking at a house that used to be my home. I grabbed my bag off the passenger seat, rummaged around for the coke, found it, opened it up, poured a small mound onto my thumb, and sniffed it up. I re-sealed the bag and put it back, along with James' gun and spare magazines. I zipped up the bag and put it back on the passenger seat. I took out James’ phone - a brand new iphone - unlocked it and it required a pin - four digits. I looked up at the house, no movement...1st attempt 1111, failure. Second attempt 0000, failure. What was the date of birth on his licence? Fuck can't remember. No idea how many attempts I had left.
