Paddy Nemesis, page 3
I didn’t actually want to look at my boss throughout the little spat, or even when we got up and left. Still despised him for what he did to me in Boyle. I stared at the mirror behind the bar, the distorted contortion of my face expanding and contracting with the speed, dissolving into my system. Tried to figure out why my head was smaller than my neck. Like a little kiddie glove. And why his voice sounded so distant, didn’t realise I was shouting at him, not out of anger but because I thought he was so far away, and then I couldn’t figure out why in the reflection he was right next to me. Just wanted to drink my drink in peace, go home. I wanted to leave the show for a bit. But when every move I made was being watched, what chance did I have of any time to myself being Jack. That was me after all, wasn’t it?
- You’re right. Hey, I’m not going to apologise, because I think that I was right in what I was doing. Fair enough, it isn’t what you want, and I brought shame on the family, but I have something that keeps me in this job - balls and fucking determination, and that’s what is needed to get the job done. I have a 100% record in getting the fuckers. I’m employed to take down, so allow me to vent some aggression or whatever it is that fogs my head from time to time. It usually results in more people getting arrested, so if there is a possibility in doing so, I’m working over and above my mandate. So either back the fuck off, or tell me what you want. Because I know this is no social call, and it is certainly not about what I did at Lansdowne. I’ve done far worse and you know it, and I’ve never been pulled up on it before.
- Finished?
- No but I needed to catch some air.
And really not speak at a million miles an hour with a sign over my head telling the boss I was off my fucking tits
-Before you burst in front of me, I want you to do something for me, as a favour.
You have this great ability of talking absolute bollocks, and whatever you’re taking, I take it it’s speed?
- Well…
- Whatever. I want you to stop now, as of now - no more. You’re compromising our team, and I’m sick of stopping my workload to ensure you’re not arrested, and bailing you out of every corner you get yourself trapped in. This is the last window I’m giving you. I want you clean - now - this second. As soon as whatever’s in your system comes out. Call it a day, and when I say clean, you shave, you wash, you get sorted out, bright as a button. I’ve bailed you out of enough shit.
Laughing in his face wasn’t an option; it seemed like a polite request and fair enough. I took liberties, but underneath this little one-to-one was an undercurrent of anger, quelled by his rationality. I hoped he would remain rational until I was out of sight. If that changed, he would lose control of all rational functions. He would be in my face screaming, pushing, shoving, clenched-fists ready to strike you. I’m surprised he didn’t dehydrate himself, with the tidal wave of spit that flew out of his mouth whenever it opened. I stared on, keeping my mouth shut and trying not to crack up laughing.
- OK, so what’s in it for me?
- For you?
- You’ve known that I have had to dabble in chemicals for years now, dependant on the job and I'm sure the tax payer would appreciate paying for my little stays in rehab. There wasn’t much of a choice in it as I had to go deep undercover a couple of times and it helped having a habit. You didn’t like that. I weaned myself off the hard stuff but still kept on at the softer stuff. Now you’ve asked me to clean up my act after a little altercation, off the back of being involved in getting the Curran Gang arrested, the whole fucking gang, I want to remind you again.
- I know this.
- So, what have you planned for me next?
- Planned?
At this, I turn and face him. I never liked being treated like an idiot.
- Don’t treat me like an idiot.
- You’re going home, Jack.
- I know, soon as I’m finished this drink, if you’ll let me.
- I don’t mean Raheny.
- Boyle?
- Boyle.
Fuck.
- Fuck.
He grabbed my hand as I went to neck the last of the pint
- Lets go for a walk.
I was like “yeah ok.” Needed the fresh air, unblock my head. My body was hurting from the pasting I'd given the skanger. I was on the verge of giving up the ghost and just collapsing in a heap. We walked to O'Connell Bridge. A couple of young ones walked past me, and my eyes focused on the red-haired 20 something on the left of the two. Her soft white face reflected happiness and I tried to find something in her eyes that I didn't like about her. There wasn't anything but warmth and the smile she wore like a secret, as she listened intently to her friend. Please look at me, make today normal for me, just a glance. As she walked past, not even noticing me, I got knocked in the shoulder by a humpty dumpty-looking fella, with a bowling ball for a head. Doing what any immature male does, we stared each other down; moving away with each step, daring ourselves to make the first move back, to give the other one a beating for just walking into each other. I am the worst though, I never move out of the way for anyone. They move for me. The incident with the junkie at Lansdowne slipped from my mind as quick as my ex's knickers every time I went round her flat. Loved her too, she broke my heart. Walked fast to catch up.
- Had your fun?
- Ah you know me, never can be too serious. I don't want to end up like you.-
- Funny man.
We headed up
O'Connell Street.
- So this is a long way round to
Store Street, we aren’t going there are we?
- Nope.
I stopped by the Spire. He stopped too. I am a nosey fucker at the best of times, but I was not going to get pissed about for whatever this was.
- How long since you been home?
I had to think about that. When was the last time I had had a shower or more than six hours’ continuous sleep?
- About three days I guess, maybe four.
He looked at me despairingly.
- I don't smell ok?
- I didn't mean here, I meant home.
- Boyle isn’t home to me anymore.
About 150 miles north-west of Dublin, the arse-end of nowhere. I hadn't been there for a few of years, and had no real intention of going back there again.
Too many ghosts and too many skeletons. My dad blinked into my mind for a second, blood coming from the wound in his head. What was left of it.
- Why me? And don't give me your "You're the man for the job" shit. Why me?
- You know the area; you know the people.
- I knew the area, I knew the people. I haven't been back there for eight years; you know this. I'm not exactly the town favourite at the moment.
- I’d like you to explain this for me.
- I'd rather not and you know fucking why.
- You still don’t have a choice.
Fuck
- I thought you would have done your research on this?
- I have, but I want your take on the situation.
When you have really bad memories of anything in your life, it takes a long time to assimilate and dissimilate. You have to condition yourself in a geological way, allowing time to compress memories into locked parts of your mind. You bury them as deep as possible. Make them inaccessible and pile on as many good memories as possible. When you feel all that negativity flooding back, you just want to shut the door on it. But before you get to the handle, it’s out in the open, scraping on the inside of your skull, grinning.
- You knew about my father; you were there.
I brought my chin down to my chest. I didn't want to look at my boss.
- I've had the fucking counselling about this, ok?
- And what did the counsellor say?
Still looked away, looking at the GPO and the bullet holes in the columns. A time of resistance and change.
- She said I'm depressed, or should I say was.
- You’re not now?
- I am now you want me to talk about my father, and you want to drag all those memories back to the surface. Fuck, are you enjoying this?
- No.
I just laughed. What else was there to do?
- Well, neither am I, man.
It was all bubbling up inside me, the pressure, with no valve to release it. It was happening again and I couldn't stop it. I closed my eyes and felt the world spin round. As they opened, everything stopped. The valve was opening up.
- Look, whatever it is that's happening in Boyle, which I have to say is laughable, I can cope with. What happened with my father happened about six months after I finished my training.
- It was seven months.
- Six, seven, what does it matter?
Some other little shit knocked into the back of me as he walked past. I paid no attention. I needed to get another deck of fags, I'd just finished up the last one and already the craving for nicotine was making my skin prickly.
- I was working in Boyle with my friend Glen, remember him? It was our first posting after training. We were best friends and had been since Junior School. I think he's still there, but I'm not sure, to be honest. I haven't spoken to him in a while.
- He is. A Sergeant like yourself, clearly with less powers though.
I wasn't surprised he was still there. He must have been able to cope with the loss of a colleague, not colleague and a Father.
So without too much of a pause, not that I was looking for a dramatic effect, since it was dramatic enough, I told my boss all that I wanted to tell him. I didn't give him everything. I have to give my father some peace in death; after all, it wasn't exactly a peaceful ending. He knew about the murder; he was in charge of the case. It was harder than I thought, recalling all he ever did that was wrong as a father, harder than most of the punches I'd ever received. It hurt like a three-day hangover entering its fifth day. Saying that, it was a cleansing of sorts. The kind of cleansing where your skin boils and peels off like paper. It leaves you standing alone and raw. So I went on to tell him what he already knew, that I wasn’t the town favourite, that I might as well have been banished from the town, for running away like a fucking coward
- Thank you.
- What, do I get another medal?
- You will if you catch these fuckers.
He handed me the envelope.
I fucking knew it
I opened it, keeping the contents close to my chest. Read it, then re-read it. It was bullshit.
- Not very thick.
- No, but you seem to be.
I read it again and turned the page over to make sure there wasn't anything on the other side. If I emphasised the point any more I could have been a neon sign.
- So let me get this straight - and stop me if I miss something. You want me to go to Boyle and kill people I don't even know, rather than arrest them, because it's easier than bringing them to court. And by killing them, a void is left in the cocaine market which is going to be filled with - and I have a real fucking problem dealing with this, if you pardon the pun, a shadowy, scary and secretive Government endorsed agency. And the reason for this is, if we can't beat them, join them? Isn't that illegal?
- You're a sarky fucker, Jack. The reason why the Government is getting involved is because cocaine is too high a mountain to tackle. Money has been fucked into it left right and centre for ages and the problem is getting worse. So why not build our own Everest. The coke will be tested and analyzed before hitting the streets to make sure it’s not filled with shit, so we are saving addicts from snorting up rat poison or bleach or fucking laxatives. The second and more vital point is that we believe these bucks you’re going to execute run over half of the coke in Ireland, and when we get a foothold on that market, we can take it over. You inform the lads bringing the coke in that they deal with you now. Of course, after expenses, the money raised will be used for Government purposes.
- Like relinquishing the austerity measures and rehabs?
- Indeed, but mostly to make up for some of the little losses we made. Health will play an important part. You wouldn't believe how much money coke makes:
I had an idea of the amount. He showed me a figure on a piece of paper. He was right, I didn't believe it.
- Did I wake up this morning in a banana republic? Whose fruit loop idea was this?
- I can't give names, but as high up as you can get.
- The Pope?
- May as well be.
- Is he snorting a bit himself? Fuck, if this gets out, we may as well burn ourselves in now. But why kill them? Can't we just keep them as puppets and use them to our advantage?
- How do you mean?
- Draw out the court case; make it look like they controlled more than say 30%. How we are the good guys, by getting it off the streets and promising to take the drug war off the streets and make it nice and safe again. It would be better than being the playground bully. Not to mention the fact that once I take out these fucks, everyone will want a piece of the pie, and I can't fight them all myself.
- We know. We have a plan in place, which will take effect after you have followed through on your orders.
- Care to fill me in?
- No.
This situation was getting worse by the minute and I haven't even left Dublin.
- Why kill them, it makes no sense
- Actually it was my idea, and it’s been authorised.
- Why?
When he told me, he got his hands up and grabbed my arms. I think he only held on to me in case I went a bit mad again. I did but only in my head. In there, a war just kicked off and it was tearing me apart from the inside out. When I calmed down enough to breathe, I asked to be told again. I was calmer this time around.
- These are the men who killed your father.
Chapter 4
I must have been wearing earmuffs because the traffic suddenly became all distant and hushed. The people walking past me, happy, smiling - basking in the brief glimpse of the sun - passed me, entwined in their own happy stories with happy endings. I was jealous. I was starting my own throat-slitting, post apocalyptic 500 pager, where the happy ending was not buying the story in the first place.
Ah well, I could think of better ways to start off the weekend.
He was a few steps in front of me. I tried to move off after him. Something was cementing my feet to the floor. Not shock - fuck that, too strong for shock. Too proud to admit it; this was a vacuum. The few seconds after a 100-pound bomb goes off, the air expelled from the surrounding area coming back in on itself. I was stood in the middle of it. I wasn’t thinking about my dad, or the cunts who may as well be dead now - just the expansive emptiness - opening up quicker than the time it took for the universe to be created, and the blood spilling in to fill it up.
I slapped myself in the face.
Some auld one stopped and looks at me.
My eyes bored into her skull.
- Fuck off.
I gave her a smile, which shocked her more, but before she had a chance to close that hole in her face, I jogged up after the boss.
- I can't give you more information, Jack, because what you have there is all I know. I want you to kill these men and I want you to do it as quickly and as quietly as possible. Dump them in the Shannon, whatever you want, but don’t draw attention to yourself, here or back home. Fucking hard to do I know, but I don’t want uniform breathing down our necks, they may be country cops but they are not stupid. Do you understand?
- I do, yeah.
I could have asked him to write it down for me, but sarcasm was far, far from my mind, I thrust my hands deep into my pockets, feeling the lining. A hardened wad of gum on the pavement kept me focused on the ground rather than my boss. Breathed slowly through my nose, calming down, initial shock still wearing off, but getting there. Some van driver braked, yelled some abuse at the driver in front of him, who did the right thing, put on the emergency brake. A young girl, about five, fell into the street. People rushed over - they leave me all alone. The girl was ok, she would survive another day.
I'm dying; right here, right now, not one of those ‘we all die’ kinda deaths. But I was an onion being peeled away piece by piece, layer by layer, until there was nothing left but a fake, plastic drone. A Government fucking drone and I know I'm being played. They had all the cards and I was down to my last chip, but who was bluffing? To the boss, I was cut up and distraught, but I was thinking fast. Who else was watching me? We couldn't be the only two people who knew. If this was a ladder, it was the lowest rung; it couldn’t get any lower. I was the factory boy. Who else was above me? What was there to lose? The Government was in on the drugs trade and desperate for cash from any source? This was a head-fuck, a supreme, Diana Ross, head fuck. Think, think, think, didn’t know what to think, get away, need space, get away as fast as possible.
I didn’t want to stand here anymore, under the spotlight, the boss staring through me, he knew saying no wasn’t an option. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me now.
- You want an answer now?
- This isn't a yes or no option, you’re on the first train out of Dublin tomorrow, sober.
The heel of my left palm was trying to push my forehead back in on itself, pushing out all thoughts: my family, my mother, the grave, the killers, Sarah. I needed a drink but couldn't decide if I wanted to be sick or not. With every action comes a reaction, and I don’t know what my reaction was at that moment, because I didn’t know what action to take. But the action started eight years ago when me Da was shot in the face for being too old and too slow, still thinking he was the hero. There were no heroes. They were characters written by someone who had fuck all idea of what was going on. I didn't believe in heroes; I just believed in me.
Wha’ the fuck was I thinking, head was just a mush. I had a need for retribution, to avenge, to shift the balance in our favour. Remembering how I was when I was told the news, everything caught fire and the need to kill those who stupidly pulled the trigger outweighed the search for justice. Would I do it for my Da? Or to stop the coke being shipped in? But what the fuck, the nose powder was going to be sold anyway, just by men in suits with gleaming white teeth who kiss the heads of babies and electioneer, rather than those in tracksuits with a broken graveyard for a mouth, kick babies heads in and racketeer.
