Paddy Nemesis, page 20
- What the fuck are you doing down there?
- Trying to light a cigarette now fuck off, g'lad.
A few minutes later, once I'd calmed down after being spotted, I got on to the
Dublin Road. The marina was off and down to my right and ran for quarter of a mile along the river. A mini Monaco in the heart of Ireland - except with boy racers rather than formula one drivers speeding round the roads.
I was hoping that whoever was down there was armed, ‘cause I was running out of ammo like a old one on the game was running out of time. I kept to the left of the road, the traffic on my right was light enough but I was on the banks of the river now so I was hard to spot - if anyone was looking for me. I guessed the drop off would be at the far end of the marina, using the boats moored in front as cover, there being a desperate need to be as inconspicuous as possible.
I kept in tight to the boats. Some looked like tiny yachts - a poor attempt to be affluent. Some were fishing boats for hire. Some looked liked the owner needed to get a bigger boat. My eyes were high on coke, never fixed but with a fixed stare, the traffic, the pedestrians, the boats, the decks, the water - the lad walking towards me with a sawn off shotgun who thankfully didn't notice me as I dove in left behind a yacht called the Enola Gay. Two things I considered at this point, I did more diving than any premiership striker, and who the fuck would want to name their fucking boat after a song by OMD. I coiled myself in tight, footsteps loud enough under the gravel. The sentry was breathing so heavily I thought he might be a part time dirty phone caller.
Then he stopped. Had he seen me, or seen something which arose his suspicion? I heard the bic lighter and the burning tobacco sizzling, less than a meter from me. I could smell the Marlboro Gold, and knew this lad wasn't going to be moving any time soon.
I uncurled like a taught spring. All the built up tension in my legs sprung me up. I got my left hand around, and took the smoke from his mouth. My right hand covered his mouth like a steel plate and I pushed the smoke, lit end into his eye. The gritted teeth and spitting and squealing were all built up behind my right hand. As his eye started to sizzle, I pushed the smoke in further and stubbed it out. I then brought his head round and caved it in to old Enola. I made sure his forehead hit first, snapping his head back, breaking his neck and the top of his spine snapped. Surprisingly no blood just flattened cranial matter as he crumbled to a heap.
I searched the body and found six cartridges for the shotgun, a butterfly knife and a 10-spot which raised the faintest of smiles in me. There wasn't any ID on him, and I doubt I'd find any on whoever it was up ahead of me. Except for Glen - but they'd need ID to verify his body after I'd been at him. I took the essentials and left the knife, too fucking fancy for me. I kicked this buck off the side and he fell into the water between the boat and the wharf, the faintest splash only noticeable to those looking out for the sound.
I started moving forward again.
I saw it up ahead of me about 50 meters or so, reversed up to the wharf, back doors wide open, light on inside with two lads placing cellophane wrapped packages inside was an old 1970's post office van. It looked like it should have been red, but with the lack of a clean and more scuff marks than on a basketball court, I couldn't be sure. Glen was moving between the front cab, the back of the van and then onto the boat. Nobody was in the cab, the drivers door was open, which enabled me to see through to the passenger side door which was shut.
Three is a magic number - but I couldn't be too sure it was only three I was dealing with. I was armed with the sentry’s shot gun. My Glock and James' shooter were in my waistband under the coat, just enough ammunition to scrape through - unless I picked some up along the way. I snapped open the shotgun just to be sure it was loaded, paranoia seeping in, knowing already that it was loaded, but playing it all cautious like. Three wharfs away and I snuck onto the fishing boat moored on the starboard side, crouching down low and moving across the deck. I could see the drug ship two boats away, there was a fourth lad behind the steering wheel thing, at least 6'2" and stocky from a life on the open waves and not a single hair on his head to show for it. He was wearing a ballistics vest which didn't bode well for me because I'm sure he wouldn't be the only one wearing one. Glen and the two other lads would surely have them on under their jackets. I kicked myself for not noticing something so obvious. I hundred myself over the side of the fishing boat and dropped down onto the wharf.
I assumed a sentry had been sent out the other way from the fella I'd just crushed the skull of, and maybe another up towards the road. There would never be a small army to fight because of the numbers and who can be trusted. I wasn’t surprised Glen could trust or pay-off that many people. With a billion euro worth of coke, anybody could be paid off. I climbed up onto the neighbouring boat, a yacht called Shergar. So Shergar was in Leitrim after all. I laid the shot gun on the deck and took from my waist the Glock with the home made silencer.
I had direct line of sight to the captain fella, no obstructions or glass to shoot through, the slightest whisper of a breeze. He didn't appear to have a firearm on him, his arms folded across and hands tucked in under his pits to keep warm. The two lads carrying the coke out were walking underneath me. I could see the inside of the van and it didn't appear to be that full but then again I wouldn't know what a billion euro worth would look like. Glen walked behind them telling them to hurry the fuck up. He was also on the phone - telling whoever it was on the other end that it was all nearly off and they would be on their way soon and that he'll be dealt with, I guessed that's me. He cut the call off without saying goodbye - the rude bastard. This left me in a fucking quandary now, there's a mystery third person making this an unholy trinity.
I called him up - he's my best mate after all - and left the phone on the deck next to the shot gun. Before he answered he barked orders to hurry up, that it was me on the phone. One of the lads said there's only a couple more left to go, and they hurried back onto the boat and into the hold. Glen picked up my call as I was lining up to shoot the captain.
- What do you want? Hello? Jack?
He looked around him as he could hear his voice down the other end of the line, he knew I was nearby.
- Where are ya, you cunt?
Spinning round like a whirling dervish, nearly as paranoid as me, getting high on his own supply. The captain is looking out at Glen, who's pacing up and down the wharf trying to find the sound of his own voice.
Split-second timing here boy.
The barrel of the gun flashed sending the bullet out at around a speed of 1200 feet per second. The captain was about 10 feet away from me. First he was there and then he wasn't, the force of the shot knocking him backward - jets of blood decorating the window and ceiling - spraying out from the carotid artery that I had just blew a chunk out of. Before Glen could get hold of whatever cannon he was holding, I had spun round and shot at his right knee, the bullet passed through -sending bone and flesh out of the exit wound and he collapsed onto the wooden deck screaming in agony, hands clasping at the place where his knee used to be. Grabbing the shotgun off the deck, I leapt over the side of Shergar , ran over to Glen and kicked him in the jaw, breaking it with one boot in - hard. Hard enough to scream out, raising unwanted attention with a broken mouth. His whimpers and groans like the sound of broken machine parts.
- I'll be back for you in a minute
And I gave him a little tap on the cheek with my hand, the way friends do when they part. I walked up the gang plank of the Pearl Necklace, shotgun aiming out from the hip. Up, onto the deck, hearing the footsteps getting louder from the hold and before I can get a look at them, I've blasted a hole in the first lads chest - so wide that there would be no requirement to crack his ribs open for the postmortem. From out of nowhere the rain starts hammering down, I step forward and slip on the wet deck, my left leg shoots out in front of me as the second lad leaps over his pal and as my arms raise up. I pull the trigger. He wouldn't be able to be identified by his dental records as he had no head for the dentist to look into. Bang – I was on my back, laughing to prevent any embarrassment at the fact I'd slipped over. My ears were ringing from the blast and I felt I wee bit disorientated, but conscious of the fact there may be others ready to turn my body into a once-living colander. I turned myself over and was up on all fours looking back towards the post office van which now had its rear doors shut.
Fuck.
I stood up, cracking my back into place, stretching like I'd just been asleep. He surely couldn't have got up for fuck sake, this was the Wesht of Ireland not fucking Planet Hollywood – but, nothing would surprise me – and, as I looked over onto the wharf, my beliefs were confirmed, Glen wasn't there. I didn't need a trail of breadcrumbs to let me know where he was, the blood, thick like paint showed me he'd gone to the front cab of the van, not before shutting the gates. I was up on two feet, running towards the bow of the boat, reloading the shot gun, the other suspected sentry fired at me, but I was moving so fast that he shot at where he thought I was going to be. The van lunged forward not in the correct gear and I jumped over the bow, blasting out the offside rear tyre. The weight of the load noticeable as the van leaned over towards the left. I was never a gymnast but I would have got 10's across the board for the forward role - swinging the shotgun round to my right and shooting out the other rear tyre. The van tilted backwards, the doors not secure, and the coke slides out of the open doors onto the floor, knocking me over.
The sentry was nearly over me reloading, he thought I had only an empty shotgun, and nothing else to my name, I didn't. I'd lost my Glock somewhere in the jump. I had James' handgun though, trapped under my back, and I was able to get enough leverage to lean over to my right, left hand in under my back, fully loaded and ready to go, he was a big enough target and I emptied the magazine into the sentry’s chest, ending up on his knees looking for bits of his chest that weren't there anymore. I kicked some of the coke off of me and into the river, allowing myself enough room to manoeuvre around. I got up, grabbed the sentry by the scruff of the neck and dragged him over to the river and forced his head under, enough energy had been drained from him with the gunshot wounds, and he flailed an awful less than a man of his stature should have.
I left him head first in the water, thinking one more, but one more isn't one more because there will always be one more. I scoured round for my Glock, picking up bales of coke that had been shed from the van and launched them into the river, each more of an effort than the last. I was tempted to rip open a bale and bury my head in the soft floury powder. I located the sentry’s .36 - shit fucking weapon - there were four rounds left. I checked my pockets and found the last magazine for my as-yet-to-be-located Glock. I kept moving between both sides of the van, no open doors, Glen was still inside trying to find my stupid fucking Glock, out of habit I patted the pockets of my jacket, nothing.
Fuck it, not going to be any loss, I've two cartridges left for the shotgun and four rounds in the .36. I throw James' gun into the Shannon and use the .36 to shoot out the wing mirror on the passenger side, then flip back around the other side and shoot out the mirror on the driver’s side. I thump the old panels on the drivers side like a demented drunken husband, trying to get into the house to beat on his wife. I go around the other side and dent the panels there, then run up and around the back, thumping, then back on myself, opening the passenger door.
- Boo
Not even a jump, just a sad-looking, fucked up, shot to shit, jaw-jutting cunt of a best friend. The engine was still running, so I leant over and turned the key in the ignition. He tried to stop me - like a lion tries to stop a runaway train on ice - I brushed his hands away and took the key. I also pilfered his pockets, found his mobile and my Glock, old faithful, and took them off of him, caressing my gun like a priest does a child, but the gun was already stiff.
- Now, before our colleagues come sniffing around I shall tell you a few things, and leave you to ponder on them. Glen? Glen?
He turned away from me and looked out the window into nothingness. Still acting the prick even now. I stuck my thumb into the gunshot wound in his knee, clamped my hand around his knee and squeezed it like a ripe melon. Wailing screams, high pitched squealing came out, snot and spit dribbled onto his chin. Trying to open his mouth only intensified the pain, he had no hope and was being tortured.
- Shut up
And an open-palmed slap across the face didn't silence him, so I let him go, released his knee and leant back against the passenger door, arms folded.
- Well now Glen, I'm guessing our good friend Patrick told you about what I do for a living now? Cigarette?
I offer one out but then retract the box and pull a smoke out and light it up myself.
- Well see, I'm sort of a Ranger, I used to be in the Special Detective Unit, fast tracked don't you know, and now I'm in the G2 now. Like Special Branch but without all the Unionist collusion. My boss, you remember him? The lad who was in charge of me Da's murder case? He tells me that I've to come back here and steal the drugs in the back there, to give to the Government who would then sell them on. He also said I've free reign to kill the importers and I was like woh, I can do that quite easily, but why both? And you never guess what he told me: The cunts importing the drugs are the same cunts who killed my Da, and the same cunts who like to play toy politics up North, who used the be the same cunts that blew up pubs and kids. Hang on, they still do that - but - ssshhhh it's a big fucking non-secret.
Looking up onto the road, a couple of squad cars turn onto
Main Street, better late than never, I suppose.
- So I arrive in Boyle - off my fucking head, like a sky boy, anger Glen, like you would never know. If you had an heat-seeking camera I would have melted it. I was also shit scared, ‘cause of the fact that I thought I was going to see you, and you and Sarah had been let down about my disappearance. I was shitting myself, but I have to admire how fucking low you are, to do that to your own sister - getting her high on your gear, and setting her up with one of your patsies, allowing my son to think he was the son of one of your mongrel cunts from fucking Limerick? But I tell you one thing, look at me, I said fucking look at me!
Not a single tear in his eye, not a single bit of remorse, I didn't need to hear the word sorry. It wouldn't have made any difference and I couldn't care if he was or not.
- For whatever reason, out of malice, or jealousy that I turned the tables on you and got all you ever wanted, or maybe it was the glory of playing the double life, creaming it all over the place like a cheap porn star. Funda-fucking-mentally you stepped over the line so many times the word linear may as well not exist, and you killed my Da didn't you? And you fucked up my life and you fucked up your sisters, your nephew’s, the town and the fucking country.
He looked at me, searing eyes, like he'd still won and the slightest attempt at a nod, like he was proud of the actions by his hands.
- Ah Glen, can I say for the purposes of the tape that you are admitting you killed my Da?
He made a noise that sounded like scraping metal, as he opened his mouth. The first syllable merged with the second and third and for the purposes of the tape, it was almost certainly a "yes". It could never be submitted as evidence in court because the defence would have a field day that he had answered under duress, of course fucking duress, what else could I have done your honour.
- Well old pal, it's a fucking travesty eh? It's a travesty that you won't get an open coffin.
Everything turned red, I lunged forward, grabbed his head and brought it forward into the steering wheel, again and again and again. One punch, two, three, thinking of my dad with half his head missing - pistol whipped, covered in blood, the window covered in blood. I leaned back over to the passenger side and shoot him in the other knee, the flash and sound was intense. He wasn't dead but he was certainly unconscious. I hawked up some phlegm and spat on him and got out of the door, dazed and confused, feeling fucking guilt for what I'd just done, guilt!!
I ran back onto the boat and into the hold, slipping slightly on the pool of blood around the body of those lads who were carrying the coke out, went down into the engine room and found a container full of petrol. Boy, do I love setting fire to things, destroying the old so that new life can start. I dragged it back up onto the deck, unscrewed the top and pushed it over on its side, dragging it down the gang plank. I pulled it across the wharf, up to the rear doors of the van, round to the driver’s side, about 20 metres in front and I sat down, covered in blood and out of breath. I got up and ran back down to the river and washed my hands in the murky waters, trying to get all the petrol off of them. I took my jacket off, washed my arms and smell them to make sure there wasn't any petrol on them. I could still smell it, but it wasn't on my arms. I put my jacket back on, ran over to the canister then back, and lay it on top of the spilled cargo behind the van. This time, I walk back over to the front of the van and followed the trail of petrol I'd left.
I turned and looked at the van, in at Glen's unconscious flesh - incapable of leaving the van even if he woke up. I got the lighter from inside my pocket and extend my arm, lighting it, crouching down, half a metre away from where the trail ended. I lit it, then ran very fast in the opposite direction. The expulsion of air from the first explosion throws me forward, and I ended up splayed out on the floor with the trunk of a tree as a pillow. I rolled over and watched the display as the flames engulfed the van and the boat.
If only it was over
Chapter 24
Think it's best I hand in my resignation.
I lean up on my elbows watching making sure it all burns, the gear, the evidence, the bodies. A smell of roast pork tinged with burning rubber, a gorgeous bouquet. I walk 50 meters to my left, past Shergar with the starboard side of her warping in the heat, past The Enola Gay up to the bridge that separates Leitrim and Roscommon.
