Paddy Nemesis, page 2
I asked for a lift back into town, there wasn't one going. I couldn't find the lad from the CAB anywhere to give him a slap, so I walked to the station, waited for a train, got the train and now here I was.
- And what about what you did on the train?
- Ahhhhhhhhh….
Chapter 2
Was the answer to be that I just didn't get my own way at the port, and the child in me did it for the sake of proving a point - and therefore my own masculinity?
No, I did it because I wanted to and because I could.
When I got on the train, all the seats were occupied - and I don’t think rucksacks or briefcases would have been politely moved to allow me to sit.
I felt like a prize-fighter who'd been sucker punched, in a fight I should have won, easily, and so I was extremely pissed off. I asked:
- So, you had me followed then?
- You'd given me no other option. I know it didn't go down the way either of us wanted, but you were way out of line when they nabbed you.
- Was I?
Anyway…
So I stood at the back. The other passengers moved themselves away from me, even if they were seated.
I was humming “Free Bird”, and kept my eyes fixed on a young one who had got on at the same stop, through the next set of doors down from me.
- Get on with the fucking story.
And I was away with my thoughts, in and out of my own subconscious.
She sat sort of opposite me, to my left, with a world record cleavage packed into a top so small it could have been Barbie’s. Her skin was ivory white and there was a little fat hanging over and under the thin line of material from her black g- string. It cut into the
flesh, like cheese wire wrapped round a big round of Edam.
Here eyes were like saucers of crystal blue sea and I was immediately in love.
There were other passengers sat around her, with shifty action man eyes looking at her boobs and back, clocking each other than looking at their shoes.
I was just as guilty and didn’t care if I got caught: diluted morality and all that.
The things I was thinking: a thug’s fantasy.
A tit wank, too much porn on my brain, cumming on her face, looking at the camera, looking like you love it. I wondered how big her nipples were and what they would look like if it were cold in there. No fucking grey areas there.
My cock was trying to stand to attention. It wasn’t that I required advice from Pele, skinny jeans over fat legs did the trick. Thank God for my three quarter length black woolen coat. Buttoned up against the cold with the collar up, gave me the look of a member of the Russian Secret Police in World War Two. Some fashion never requires changing and neither does the role of the person wearing it.
Her skin was the complexion of skimmed milk, I wanted to taste it.
That’s what the Irish sun does for you. 364 days of cloud and rain. Then you get one day of cloudless skies and a hot sun. Everyone rushes to the shops to get something that looks relatively summery and by the time you’ve got in your bikini or Hawaii shorts, the sun has stuck its two fingers up at Ireland and gone on holiday to Greece or Australia, anywhere that isn’t here. She may just like wearing tight tops, or she can’t wash clothes without putting the machine on 70 degrees - I didn’t care.
She had chewed gum like her life depended on it, and twiddled nervously with her hair, whilst trying to pull her top up with her other hand. Knew it was just the way it had to be. Couldn't go over and ask for her number, massively against protocol and I looked like I should be on the most wanted list.
For someone so nervous looking, she had a real complex. I wanted to go over to her and say its all ok. Not with this mask on though. I wanted for too much.
And for a few seconds, I got a teen lust for being in her top, grabbing at her flesh and pulling her hand into my trousers as I sucked on her mouth.
Snap the fuck out of it man, I thought. You’re 33.
I kept humming, focused on the five-minute riff at the end of Free Bird. It is an amazing piece of music but it does seem to be very much aware of its own self- importance. They just did it because they could.
Then she glanced at me. Her eyes looked grayed out. She was like really nervous, it was pretty fucking obvious. Her eyes reminded me of the deer I nearly ran over driving to Carrick, trapped in the headlights, wrapped in thick fog.
It was clear to all parties involved that it was obviously my fault, this edginess. The fact of the matter is I get paid to be a chameleon. Well, partially. A year ago I was suited and booted for a wee bit of industrial espionage and subterfuge. It was in the news and everything, that poor Chief Executive of the Irish and European Bank who was a bit too liberal with lending millions and skimming off the top. Found hanging in his bedroom, no suicide note or anything.
His poor family, the poor tax payer, all suffering in their own personal ways.
But this; this was a grunge thing.
It was not fun looking like this, for me or your woman. If I had looked semi-civilised, she might have smiled at me.
It was all an act.
The little ripple of guilt passed and I thought, well fuck it. She should have known better than to wear a top like that. What did she expect? Yeah, I looked like a tramp, but thanks to me and what I did, she wouldn’t get raped tonight. She probably thought I was going to rape her, but she had the look of a dim light in a room full of dust. Nice tits though. I couldn't believe how I loved and hated her in the same breath.
She got off at Lansdowne, head down and out the doors. She had a pretty shit bra on because she was bouncing round without even running.
- You’re boring the hole off me now, on with this fecking farce.
- I'm just letting you know the whys and the wherefores.
As the doors shut, I saw a skinhead waster in a shiny blue tracksuit and crap Reebok runners, with a face as white as the moon and heroin red mascara round the eyes move out of the shadows, making a grab for her fleshy arm. She turned in surprise and let out a little yelp. She tried to flick him away as if a wasp had just landed on her arm. Some other passengers looked on, but didn’t want to stop reading their books or interrupt the conversations on their phone.
I couldn’t do anything. I so wanted to, a fucking release of all that was pent up in me. Thing was I'd stood still for 15 minutes and didn't know who would be able to remember something significant about me when it came to the identity parade. Didn't really matter that I was followed really, a new recruit practising surveillance techniques. Kicking myself for the stupidity of not clocking that person but still didn't care about what I actually did.
She was making a go of it, pulling away, using her weight as leverage. Fair play to her I thought. So being a bit big did have its benefits - the un-linear curves drawn with a pencil. The skanger wasn’t having any of it and punched her in the face. It shook me: Felt sick; fought back the bile. Reminded me of family life; going to my room, head under the pillow, hands of love round mum’s neck, my old man, my anti hero. I wanted to do something, anything. I wasn’t allowed.
Keep to the plan. Go to Connolly, take the speed, go home, look away.
The skanger was on her now, trying to rip her handbag off her. I couldn’t afford any more trouble. The doors shut. I leant on the window to see what was happening. She was on the concrete. Still. He had got her bag from under her arm and was running along the platform, the same direction as the train was heading, smiling. I banged on the window, both hands flat against it.
Banged harder.
He stopped, looked at me and gave me the wanker sign. My hands became numb. I cracked the glass. I lost my vision. My hands started to bleed. My voice started to scream. The glass looked like a spider web.
My vision became clear.
I saw him smile; his mouth was chipped teeth and bleeding gums. The cunt thought there was a joke somewhere. I couldn’t see the funny side. I wanted to smash that face of his in, grab his neck, stop him breathing. Pin him up against the wall. Keep punching his head. Let him spit on me. Make me more angry. Let him laugh at me. Keep punching until I hit brick.
Fuck it.
I pulled the emergency cable. Clawed at the door, pushed into it, barged through it. He stares, laughing, hysterical, Hyena. She was still lying there. I got a few fingers into the rubber seal and the driver came over the Tannoy.
- This is the driver. Is everything ok?
- Open the fucking door now, female passenger assaulted on the platform.
Nervous stutters, gasps from the passengers. Enjoy the show, you cowardly fucks, The skanger was just staring now, wondering why this agitated tramp was desperate to get out of the train. Then came the sound I had been waiting for all along, the sound of the door opening.
Before he had time to realise what was happening in front of him - he was either on a fix or desperate to get another one - I had got my shoulder out the door, with the rest of my weight behind it, and knocked whatever teeth he had left in his mouth onto the floor.
I wasn’t doing it for the girl, or for the passengers on the DART. I was doing it for me, putting the boot in. I wanted him to know he couldn’t get away with it; no one had the right to take what wasn’t theirs. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to turn him into pulp, destroy him, kill him, kill them all. No recognisable features, kick his teeth out, no dental records to identify the pile of flesh and blood.
My anger was healthy, my anger was free. I didn’t want there to be an open coffin.
Kill him.
Make him sorry he ever thought of heroin, kick his face in, stamp on his chest, crack his ribs, let them dig into his vital organs. The girl screamed, I carried on, thought, shut up, it’s no concern of yours, I‘m saving your life by destroying another one. More screams - for fuck sake, stop. I caught my breath, looked confused. She had screamed for me to stop. The train driver must have had the brown scared out of him because the train was starting off and out of the station. The open fish mouths of the passengers stared back at me, phones dropped from their ears, books on the floor.
- You wanted a show didn’t you?
The last man standing. I picked up the girls handbag, put the spilled contents back into it - makeup, tampons, a purse. I pocketed some of the change and brought it over to her. She didn’t back away, she was stuck there with a fixed look of fear on her face. I wiped the skanger’s blood off my boot, onto the back of my jeans and I tried to get my breath back. I didn’t consider the violence witnessed by the poor girl. Fuck it. I felt good, and I hadn’t had a work out like that in a long time.
What was the point in saying anything? Her back was against the wall, so to speak, and there was no way of talking her down. No one else at the station; broken streetlights. The shadows were moving in. I held my hand out to pick her up, knuckles split, threads of dead skin hanging loose. Wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t take it; never thought that I could be seen as intimidating. It wasn’t like me at all. John Bonham’s slowed down in my chest just playing “Since I’ve Been Loving You” rather than the middle eight of “Dazed and Confused”.
I really couldn’t be doing with this, trying to talk her into trusting me. No thanks - no point. From the struggle with the skanger, her top was pulled down to show more flesh, I couldn’t even be arsed to perve. Just saggy, sallow flesh.
Like an egg timer, the grains of sand bowing to gravity, being dragged through a minuscule gap and eventually running out. I felt like a husk, hollow and drained.
Another train was pulling in and she just looked at me. What did she want me to say? She got your bag back, I’m in a shit world of trouble, I saved her life and all she just looked petrified of me. What else could I fucking do, it’s not my fault.
- You could have just kept hold of you ever decreasing loss of focus.
- Think I should get glasses?
I turned my back on her and got on, hopefully never to see her again. Thank God she didn’t know who I was. Hopefully she wouldn’t be able to clearly identify me, and the CCTV on the trains and stations was shite. I made sure to take note of the cameras and my back was facing them all the time, and if they did get my face, no one would be able to recognise me. I was underground, sleeping in the dirt, growing roots. Becoming part of the earth, becoming the scum.
- Before you say anything, I know I was seen. I'm just letting you know how I was feeling at the time.
- Feel different now?
- Suppose. What are you writing?
He'd taken a notebook out of the inside left jacket pocket
- Your statement or report, you decide.
- Right
This train was quieter. I stood just inside the doors, turned and looked at the girl picking herself off the floor, looking at me all the time. As the doors close. I waved at her, and it looked like she mouthed something to me. More than likely “you fucking wanker,” but I was holding out for “thank you”.
I'd then decided to give Joe a shout, see if he was around tonight for a few relaxing beers in town. The idea of having a shower, a shave and the feel of a suit excited me. It also mean that I was distracted from what had just happened but I had serious cold turkey adrenaline shakes.
I met Joe when I came to Dublin eight years ago. We had both worked out of
Pearce Street for a while even though he was uniform through and through, I carried out the pretence that I’d been transferred straight in from Templemore. He was from Portmarnock, 5'10", oval face with deep acne scars and hazel eyes that looked like varnished wood. He was also as skinny as an anorexic but ate like a Samoan. I always said he must have had worms.
I sent:
- Beer/women, tonight?
Not even 30 seconds had elapsed and I got a reply
- Well cunt chops, where have ya been? Q bar.....
- Grand, I'll let you know when I'm heading in
And back in the room.
Chief Inspector Daly looked like he has lost the will for patience, his fingers wrapping on the envelope ever harder. I looked at it and just knew that by it being there, waiting to be introduced like an uninvited guest, what the fuck are you doing crashing my party.
- So, what happened when you got back here?
Chapter 3
I fell out of the doors, trying to stand straight and stop the adrenaline shakes from knocking me over. I didn’t bother walking ‘round people, kept in a straight line, ten pin bowling. Didn’t listen to the insults, kept my eyes fixed on the floor, didn’t want any more trouble. Just want my speed and to get back home. Beating the shit out of that skanger was a kind of cleansing, but I still felt as sick as a plane to Lourdes.
The positive feeling I normally get from dishing out that kind of justice, the one that everyone thinks about and wants to do but is too shit scared to do it, was negated by the lack of appreciation from the girl. She had looked at me with the same contempt I give to gangsters who claimed to be freedom fighters. I couldn’t understand why my view of justice had appeared warped to her.
I would never question my motives, my reasons. As far as I was concerned, it was clarity, it was black and white. I was helping, I was taking these bad fuckers out of the picture.
Fuck it, what was the point in going over it, analyzing it, till there’s nothing more. No more flesh to pick at. Figured I may as well carry on doing what I was doing, and fuck the consequences. That wasn’t what my shrink thought - but I didn’t want to do any Tony Soprano monologue about why I was being forced to do it. I wasn’t; it was off my own back. For a while, if I didn’t have her to talk to, I’d have been found hanging from the light fitting in my bedroom. But, I hadn’t seen her in a good while, didn’t need her at the moment, I was a lot better than I used to be, a lot calmer and happy with myself.
I got to the lockers, smirked at the number, 69. Childlike, stupid, no one else saw the joke. No one around. I turned round and made sure no one is having a nose, pulled out my Glock 17 9mm and stuck it in my inside coat pocket. There was no real additional weight from the gun; it was one of the lightest around and I had made a few additional amendments to it. I drilled some holes in the muzzle. It allows the air to be released rather then being fired out at extreme high pressure behind the bullet - a home-made suppressor.
- Well I thought I'd come in here for a quiet drink then head on home but I've got a bad feeling about this.
I pointed down to the envelope and the boss let out a loud sigh.
- That would make the two of us. You did a good job, got what we wanted, not what you wanted but I'll make sure you get accredited
- Fuck me do I get a wee medal too?
- But, but I have to deal now with the fuck up at Lansdowne. Come on, get up, we're going for a walk.
- Fuck sake, why was I followed?
- To repeat, to try and stop you from doing anything irrational.
- You failed. Here, let’s stay and have a drink. Gerry? Anything irrational?
- You were pretty wired after the fuck up at the port. We needed to know that you wouldn’t compromise yourself, or us, for that matter. We are fucking secret because we don’t do stupid fucking things like your showpiece act at Lansdowne.
- I feel like a full time freelance and ironic at the best of times. I don’t like to see bad things happen to good people. I try not to give a shit about our little secret missions, or whom we do them for, but I will not stand by and let some junkie fuck beat up a girl for a few euro. It’s not going to happen when I’m still around. It’s not what I got into this for, not the glory or any of that, but to help people like that girl go home safely. I can’t be there for everyone, but I can’t dismiss or ignore what I do see.
The speed was making me talk shite, waxing lyrical for no reason. In my head I was trying to show that I wasn't on any gear. Like when your drunk and slurring and you try to attempt to talk normal, never fucking works.
- You little saint you. Fuck, you didn’t even do it for the glory, I could understand if you did. You did it because you were trying to save a ghost, a phantom, an atonement for someone would never know you were trying to atone. You need to save yourself, and get off those fucking drugs. So come on to fuck.
