Paddy Nemesis, page 9
It was just too weird to head round the back, so I stepped into the porch and ring the bell.
Chapter 8
I turn my back to the door after I pressed the bell, wanted to check nobody was walking down the road. Also just the whole notion of "surprise" seemed the justifiable thing to do in a completely unjustified situation. I tried to prevent my head from dipping, resenting myself and just pure ashamed. I kicked at a stone on the porch, I kicked fuck out of it, it went about half a metre into the drive, turned to face me and said, "fuck you".
Chain rattling behind the door - when was that put on?
So I turn as the door opens, expecting to see Sarah and I'm facing a wee lad of about seven - scruffy dark hair, grubby face from the garden - wearing an ancient Irish soccer jersey, looked like one I used to have. He smiles at me and says
- Hello.
- Hello, is Sarah… sorry, your mammy in?
Turns, yells up the stairs
- Mammy, there's a man at the door for you........
- Mammy..........
- MAMMY
From upstairs - recognisable straightaway but half asleep.
- Yes Michael, I heard ya.
Michael runs out into the kitchen and a few seconds later I hear the back door shut, and I stand there like a fucking fool. I'd just woken her up so it’s not like her happiness levels towards seeing me will be any good. I listen to the creaking of the floorboards, and my stomach’s trying to force itself out through my feet.
The hallway doesn't look any different from the last time I was here. There's a photo on the wall - obviously taken by a professional photographer – Michael down in front, sitting cross-legged, big cheesy smile, five years old, and gaps in his teeth, dimples and his mother’s eyes. Behind him was Sarah, sat on a garden bench, hair dyed black, smiling the smile I always said made me want to thank God for being alive, her face looked thinner but weirdly enough she still had the curves, 36G and a size 12 - the shit I remember. She looked stunning. I wondered if she'd ever smile like that to me again.
Then I see what made her smile, behind her, standing over her, grinning but with no dimples, in an open shirt and chino combo - wanker, the father of Michael and husband to Sarah. This is a bad idea being here, anger combining with bile combining with adrenaline. Walk away.
Then she makes her way downstairs - in a towel dressing gown and pink panther pyjamas. She looks at me; I'm thinking it’s like nearly one in the afternoon, what's she doing still in those clothes? and she's got a full face of makeup on. I look at her with a weak smile and concern in my heart as she carries on walking down the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving me exposed in the doorway.
- I'll come in so?
- Do what you want, nothing normally stops you.
Pretty much what I expected. I walk in, check my bag to confirm its all zipped up and the contents protected from prying eyes. I walk in to the kitchen, a large oak dining table to my right and Sarah is in at the left putting the kettle on.
- Sit, you’re making me nervous.
So, I sit without replying, not sure if the cold atmosphere is from the ceramic tiles or her. I didn't expect open arms, but from watching her get a couple of mugs from the press, instead of admiring the curve of her arse, or drowning in her eyes, something else is bothering me. She didn't look unwell, she just looked drained, it was like she was permanently running on a low battery. I wanted to walk over to her and wrap my arms around her and not let go until she was my Sarah again not this diluted version.
- So, where have you been the last eight years?
Direct enough.
- I had to see a man about a dog, got lost, ended up a ranger, and now I kill people for a living.
- Still full of shit then.
- Only about the dog.
Kettle boiled, she still hadn't turned to look at me.
- That your husband in the picture?
A slight shudder, what's that all about?
- He's not my husband
- Oh right.
Relief at least. Like facing a firing line, they all miss but you see them reloading.
- He still around?
- Yeah, he's still around.
She starts rubbing at her nose and I'm really hoping my instincts are wrong. She brings over the tea, hasn't forgotten how I take it, squeeze fuck out of the bag and a tiny splash of milk. She sits down opposite me, the gap between us like a crevice in the ice cap.
For the first time I get to look at her as opposed to a side on view. I figure she's a mild user. She hasn't lost the curve of her body - a heavy powder user may as well be anorexic. What the fuck has happened here? He says forgetting himself –pot/kettle. She looks into her tea, won't acknowledge me. How long has she been this way, what caused her to use when she was vehemently against even smoking. She's a mother for fuck sake, what about the fucking father the gobshite. I look at her trying to find answers. The lights are on.….
- What are you doing here, why did you come back?
- Long story.
- I’ve time - you don't deserve it though.
- I know.
She looks up at me, eyes watery, like someone’s poked them.
- I had to go, what with everything going on with the old fella. I couldn't stay here a day longer. I ran away, I…
- You left me here, why did you leave me?
- Sarah… I couldn't even look after myself; you knew how I was…
- Still using?
- What?
Deadpan stare…
- Are you still using?
- Sometimes - when did you start?
- That obvious?
- Yeah, that obvious.
A single tear pushed its way out of her eye, streaked down her face, I wanted to lean over and catch it.
- I don’t know - don't want to. Why are you here?
- Work, see you, how old’s Michael?
- Seven - going on 27.
Smiles, thinking, seven?
- Is he the father?
Sudden flash of anger.
- Got over me quick enough didn't ya?
Silence, more tears.
- It’s always about you isn't it?
- What do you want me to fucking say? I've been gone eight years Sarah, didn't take you fucking long did it?
I can see Michael looking in the door at us.
- He's not Ronan's.
- Ronan? I knew the cunt would have a gay name.
Michael’s coming in the door.
- Out!
Without saying a word, he goes back out but looks at me with hatred. More tears and he keeps within sight of us. The makeup is starting to streak and she smudges it even more with her hand and winces.
Quiet whisper…
- Is he mine?
Silence, time dragging out in slow motion then the slightest of nods, like it didn’t happen.
- Is he my son?
- Yes Jack. Why are you back here?
Pipe bombs, smashed glass, disruption, synapses firing all through my veins. I thump the table, want to splinter the wood, my son the secret love child the tabloid scandal, the universe expanding in a fraction of the time it takes for me to love someone new. Michael comes back in.
- Out - I said, out!
He stands there, facing up to me a braver child than I ever was.
- Sorry Michael, don't worry ‘bout me - just very tired.
He ignores me and comes over to Sarah, arms round her, and buries his head in her chest, protecting his mother from his father.
- Just go Jack, please. Life has moved on.
I feel like vomiting, my family - scared of me - and I'd only been here for five minutes.
- I’ve work here in town; I'll be gone straight after. We need to talk.
- No we don't
- Sarah…
- Jack. You can't just walk in and pick up where you left off.
- Can’t I?
- Eight years - where were you?
- I would have come home.
- Your dad would have still been dead.
- One of the reasons I'm back.
And I saw the reason for the makeup - the bruise unmistakeable, the wincing obvious.
- Who the fuck did that to you?
Michael looks at me - feel immediate guilt for swearing, wanted to say sorry to him. He looks quizzically at his mum. She stares at me, bemused, shocked, first family time and its ending like this. She shakes her head, snot pouring out and her face crumples, beauty being destroyed.
- Michael?
- Don’t you talk to him!
Scared silence decay, someone had hurt the one I love, one of the two. I did not want to show them the monster pushing at the inside of my chest. My hands were under the table clenched and splitting the skin on my palms.
- Where is he?
- Don’t know
- Where is he?
- You can't save me, you know – you couldn't save your own mother.
And there it was, the sucker punch. I let it pass through me like wisps on dense poisonous fog. She was wrong - she knew it, but she was hurting and I'd backed her into a corner. Blows coming in from all sides and she had one last knockout punch.
I'd told her about my folks, she played with my hair as I cried when I told her about the attempted rape - standing up to my old man and the fear that came with it. I told her everything. I told her I would never be like him, to her or our children. She held me as I buried him, knew I felt guilt for not doing enough when I was just a Gard, or even when I was a spotty teenager and scared shitless of him. She'd never used that against me like she just had.
- Is he in town?
Tears all dried up and empty stares.
- Is he in town Sarah?
- Jack, do whatever work you have to do and go back to Dublin – please.
- You’re scared?
- Of course I'm fucking scared, he could be home any moment.
- Daddy won't be home.
- Ronan you mean.
- Jack!
- Can I talk to you in the hall for a minute?
- Why?
- You know why. Michael can I talk to mammy for a minute please.
Shakes his head at me.
- It’s OK Michael, I'll just be next door, I'll leave the door open.
Reluctant nod and I get up and out in the hall, before they stand, make this quick. Find this cunt. Whispers in the kitchen then laughter, his sweet little laugh and I can't even begin to think of what to say and she comes out to me.
- I should never have gone, this would never have happened
- Well, it has fucking happened hasn't it. It’s not the first time, and it won't be the last.
- Yes, it fucking will be. Do ya love him?
- No.
Straight up, no thought in the answer.
- Why then?
- Sure, what else have I got?
- My son.
- He’s a good father.
- He’s not his father, does he hit Michael?
- No - God no.
- Does he know he’s not the father?
- No.
- I’ll break the cunt’s heart as well as his skull. Where is he Sarah, it ends now.
- It can't. You can't just come here and expect things to be the same.
- I don't. Fuck, I love you, always have, always will.
- Words Jack, words.
- Let me back in, please.
- I can't - he'll kill me.
- Trust me, trust me.
- He'll kill you.
- No he won't.
And I kiss her. Grab her hand, and she entwines her fingers in mine, and I use my other hand to wipe the dried tears away.
- I’m not going anywhere, I fucked up, I want to tell you everything, but - where is he, Sarah?
Her head hangs low, tormented, she has no idea of what I've become but knows I won't give up.
- Sarah?
- Raffertys.
I turned, and was out the door and running back up the road.
Chapter 9
I can't hear any cars coming down the road. I don’t think I’ll be able to run all the way into town - not without either bringing up a lung or a having a cardiac arrest. Fuck it - the adrenaline can only get me a certain distance. So, the best thing to do a combination of walking and running, 15 of each should do it, I hope.
This Ronan cunt has taken over from where I left off, thinks he's the father of my flesh and blood and he’s sucked the life out of the only thing I ever loved more than myself. The arrogant fucking cunt, smiling away in that photo, probably forcing a smile out of Sarah or she'll get another slap. That sneery fucking smile, what right has he to think he could get away with it. In the mix of this, and - something unmissable – Michael. It’s not like the day could get any better, the happiness of finding I have a son is tarnished by his not knowing me, I’m a stranger to him. Having a steward standing in for me, beating his mum and providing her with class A, either to keep her contained or submissive so she wont walk.
It’s an easy thing to fall in love, but it’s a fucker to forgive. This will be the beginnings of atonement for Sarah, ease the route to reconciliation.
What has to happen has to happen quickly and not eat into any more time than need be. Cave fuck out of Ronan’s head and warn him off Sarah. I would like to give the whole Darth Vader "I'm Michael’s father" schpeil, but I don’t have a lightsaber or Jedi mind tricks, just fists and a gun.
What the fuck had Glen been doing to allow this to go on? A fucking Gard, her fucking brother. It clearly isn’t a recent thing, I would lay good odds on the last few years, the frailty of Sarah, her life drained. His Sister, his nephew. When I see him, we'll be having words.
Once Ronan is out of the way, I can focus on finding out where the drugs are coming in and at what time. Steal the drugs, fund the government cartel and then happily flay the skin off the smugglers. Then drive the drug-filled truck back to Dublin and keep the cogs of criminality moving. This time the criminals are voted in, surely it can't be that easy.
Quick pace, time isn't on my side. Run 15 paces walk fast 15.
Crack skull, no forgiveness. Not for Sarah, not for Michael. Guilt for running out. I feel because I hate. I hate because I feel.
Need to make a call, get some inside information - see if this job has come up on anyone's radar. Too much at risk for it all to be kept that secret. Need some info that won't go any further or raise the alarm back at HQ that I've been snooping more than I should have done. Need to call Patrick, "former" brigadier of the South Antrim IRA.
Upping the pace now, I can see the city limits and I get out my old battered phone I used for extra-curricular activities, dialled the number, silence, then voicemail.
- Cunt.
He has the phone on him but wherever he is, the reception is shit and I try again and again and again, town ever closer. I won't expect an answer from him straight away but I'll give him half hour or so. I was able to quell a minor coup for him, some of his aides didn't appreciate the direction Patrick wanted. To drop the grenade and pick up the Carmelite, progression through democracy and peace, "compromise is not a dirty word". I'd given him that sound-bite for free. I didn't really see the point in mentioning to him that he and his party only started coming up with policies and agendas like this post September 11th. And, it would be hard to continue to wage a campaign of terror against America’s closest allies, in the light of America only realising what terrorism actually meant and not romanticising about the freedom fight "back home".
Patrick’s aides were low-level IRA men back in the day. Educated in the Maze, thought Michael Collins was a traitor, and only stood by Patrick until after he got the vote of confidence from the party to put him up for election. Once this had happened, the press started receiving coded warnings for attacks on Stormont, some French pharmaceutical factory, the working-class yet gentrified streets of Belfast, of course, unless Patrick stood down. And he goes out there onto those streets, a show of strength and unwavering nerve, two fingers up to these "cowards", the men stood behind him in the crowds, nodding with passion and vigour.
I was put into those crowds, reconnaissance mission, fears that Dublin would be hit, admiring Patrick for the fact he seemed to actually believe what he was saying. Told under no circumstances to "go mad" but sure what could I do. I'd told Patrick who I was and if he required some consultancy work just give me the nod, no questions asked. Peace was the buzzword and sounded viable enough and I think the country had enough blood on its hands. I told him to keep my work secret squirrel because I felt the less people who knew the better. I casually overheard a conversation in the aide Donal's car, which I’d, bugged, expecting the minister’s vehicle, not his to be under surveillance. I called up Patrick and let him know. He told me to get rid of the problem. The following morning he publicly damned the cowards that had put a bomb under his dear friend and aide’s car. Letting the nation know that the terrorists should fear the broken wall of silence and praised the PSNI. He had some bollocks. I was sleeping off a hangover in the bed of some auld one I'd met in Lavery’s that night, and smiling at the use of an old mercury switch I'd had thought I'd never get to use. That made me smile and also the consultancy charge which wouldn't be a problem according to Patrick.
- Patrick ya warmongering cunt, how's the future first minister?
- Is that a voice from beyond the grave?
- Maybe I'm dead tired.
- Still on the government payroll?
- Aye, same as yourself.
- Isn't democracy great?
- I'm sure Mugabe said something similar.
Cutting to the chase
- Where are you?
- Sligo, electioneering is a bitch.
- You can swing via Boyle then.
- Boyle? What would I wanna go there for?.
- Ah, you know - the usual, you could buy me a drink and we could talk about old times.
Serious tone;
