A Kind of Drowning, page 1
A Kind of
Drowning
by
Robert Craven
Copyright ©Robert Craven 2021
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the publisher or author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The right of Robert Craven to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The novel is a work of fiction. The names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Objections to the content of this book should be directed towards the author and owner of the intellectual property rights as registered with their local government.
Cover Design
Cover design by Design for Writers ©2021
For Dr. Jacky Collins
By
Robert Craven:
The wartime adventures of Eva Molenaar:
Get Lenin
Zinnman
A finger of night
Hollow Point
Eagles Hunt Wolves
(winner of the Firebird Award 2021)
Steampunk:
The Mandarin Cipher: A Wentworth & Devereux adventure
Holt:
The Road of a Thousand Tigers
My heartfelt thanks to:
Sue Procter at thinkforensic.co.uk
for her time and suggestions.
Thalassophobia – The persistent and intense fear of bodies of deep, dark water and of what exists below the surface…
“What a fearful thing it is when the voyager sets forth,
but a curse remains behind.”
Wole Soyinka
Midnight
They were waiting for him outside his penthouse,. Two hoodlums built like brick shithouses draped in the street and topped off by identical black NYC peaked caps. One blocks him at the entrance to the foyer, saying he recognised him from the news. The one from behind blindsides him with a rabbit punch, knocking his sunglasses across the deserted pavement. Buckled to his knees then frog-marched across the car park to the waiting car, he is unceremoniously tossed onto the back seat. His i-Phone is confiscated. On the journey, with his head tilted back, nose pinched, trying to staunch the flow of blood down his tailored shirt, he can hear them debating their next music project: A ‘Mad Dub Irish K-Pop vibe’. The heavy sets of rings and chains glint as they waved their hands about. The only way he can tell them apart is one has tattoos on the knuckles (now laced with his blood) and one has not. They spark up their spliffs with an 18 carat gold Boucheron lighter. Funny the details you remember.
“T.T., TakeTwo?” says the one who had rabbit-punched him.
“That’s shite,” replies the other one, “What about T.M.? Twin mix?”
“Sounds like a Twix, bro,” grins Mr. Blindside.
Sounds like a whole lot of wank, he thinks. He envies the driver, screened off from the haze and the incoherent chatter. The taste of blood mixes with the heavy noxious smoke at the back of his throat and he thinks he is going to vomit. On and on through the drive Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee yammer until they settle on something incomprehensible as the title for their album.
They fist bump across him with solemn nods.
He finds himself on board the boat. Well, ‘Boat’ doesn’t even begin to do it justice. Boat suggests something small with oars or possibly a sail. This was a sleek white luxury motor yacht, cutting out to sea like a machete running on serious horsepower.
The two thugs strong-arm him down onto the middle chair, pinioning his arms to a table as they sit either side. He finds himself facing the unblinking expression of the luxury vessel’s owner.
“Try not to get any blood on anything, yeah?” says the big man. His life vest over his weatherproof jacket makes him look like a spinning top. They are sitting aft on the deck.
“That suit of yours needs to go back to the bloody tailors, mate,” he continues.
His suit? wondering if something was out of place, untidy, a loose button?
“What...” he blinks,
“The pockets.”
“…What about them?”
“Your fingers can’t reach the bottom…” intones the burly man, “…can’t reach the change.”
He and his two assailants got the gag and laugh.
But the big guy isn’t laughing.
“You’ve an outstanding invoice, the old T’s and C’s, T’s, and C’s, I’m afraid” he states matter-of-factly.
The tattooed hand one finds this even funnier. A row of teeth flashed, they looked almost too big for the mouth. The giggle sounds girlish. Girlish like a chainsaw.
With an old tissue tamped up each nostril it finally dawns on him: Invoice. Unpaid bills.
The big man facing him has a lilt, the way the vowels got stretched, Australian at times, Dublin inner city next. Beyond the lights of the overhead canopy, blackness lies beyond. Blackness and the unforgiving depths of The Irish Sea where his iPhone now resides.
“My people will look after that,”
“No. You. Will.” The big man sighs.
“I don’t have the cash to hand – how did you find me anyway?”
“You’re all over social media, you moron, partying all over the town. Now we’re into 5k a week penalties, which brings you to one hundred and forty five grand, let’s round it up to one hundred and fifty thousand, due now, today, sport,”
The big man mashes his hands together as if in prayer. Two meaty index fingers spired.
He finds his voice now, “You can fuck off,”
“I’m not the one sitting here with a face like a butcher’s block,” says the big man whose patience is rapidly wearing thin,
“Don’t have it. Simple as.”
“Find it,”
“What part of ‘Fuck off’ do you not understand?” he croaks. Air seems to evaporate out of his lungs.
“You have a safety deposit box in Adelaide Road. Private and exclusive.”
He has two safety deposit boxes at two separate locations in Dublin city, supposed to be confidential. He stares in disbelief at the unblinking mass of flesh.
“Yes, I have,” he says.
“In that safety deposit box, you have a collection of Rolexes. I’ll take two. Early birthday presents for my two beauts here. Nothing like that crappy timepiece on your wrist.”
For his size, the big guy was whip-snap fast. He lurches across the table, spilling empty beer bottles and pint glasses. A left arm is wrenched up and the cuff pulled down.
“Nice – Omega?”
“It’s a Seamaster,”
“It’s a piece of shit. A bit like you, a shiny bit of fucking useless tat,”
A severe headache was slowly spreading across his skull from the from the beating, the motion of the boat and the tendons popping like fireworks in his compressed wrist. His bowels are beginning to churn. The cold is biting into him. He dry-heaves but only some spittle clings to his lips. He spits it onto the deck, carefully avoiding the expensive looking rug beneath the chairs.
His three tormentors stare in disgust. He tries to bundle himself deeper into the expensive Italian fabric.
The big man, unwrapping his grip, holds his two palms face up.
“You’re a little gurrier like me; simple as. We’re playing by Dublin rules, as in, there are none, sport. No-holds-barred MMA. Small print, those pesky T’s and C’s apply,”
The boat slows gradually, bumping along the swells towards an aged stone jetty. Waves buffet the yacht. One of the beauts, the tattooed one, leaps onto the jetty and bounds toward the moorings.
“Now, you’re going to give me a guided tour. It has potential I can see that. Your solicitor is one of my clients and being a moron like you, had forgotten about the t’s and c’s,” the big man continues, “He gave this gig up after my boys here paid a visit. We were going to bring him along tonight on this little jaunt. Make it cosy like, only he’s recently developed breathing difficulties and is indisposed. I want a share of this. Silent partner, sport, yeah?”
Then he find his guts. He spews them heartily over the deck before clambering to puke over the gunwale.
“And if you try to fuck me over. We’ll pay that pretty little gal of yours a visit. Film it, upload it to Porn Hub. Dark Net shit. Be a gas,” says the big man.
The trio hoist him up onto the concrete and then march him up the ancient worn stone. His legs give out and he collapses onto the jetty. Staring up, he thinks the lights of Dublin blink as far away as the distant constellations above,
“Yes, this will do nicely,” says the big man, “very nicely indeed,” as they make their way up the jetty.
The rest of the night is a blur to him, only revealed through nightmarish flashes.
He knows the boat is moored in the Poolbeg Marina, on the river Liffey, near the bustling docks of Dublin. Secure in its private berth it’s getting cleaned down. Removing his smatterings of blood and vomit stains.
1
“Where to, Boss?”
It was Crowe’s kind of ride, neither he nor the taxi driver spoke. The sporadic bursts from the Satnav punctuated the silence. Dublin’s suburbs gave way to the northbound motorway.
But long distances abhor a vacuum,
“I know you,” she said.
Crow
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” he replied.
“You look done in,” she said.
He drew his hand across the week long stubble then pulled it away; he studied it. The knuckles still had faint traces of bruising. He covered them with his other hand. Sometimes the tremors arrived unannounced. The scratches had healed in coarse diagonal lines. A faint indentation on his finger hinted where a wedding band used to be.
Crowe had gone twenty-four hours without sleep. He had the kind of sour hangover that felt like a vice squeezing in on either side of his skull.
The white lines of the road were hypnotic. A passing truck flicked its lights like a flashgun sending lightening forks across his prefrontal cortex.
A lot could change in a fortnight, he thought.
“You police?” asked Abosede.
“No,” Crowe replied.
Abosede made a clicking sound with her tongue, rolling the words “PJ, PJ, PJ..” like a rolodex.
She turned her flawless profile scanning him up and down. She saw a man in an unwashed fleece; a man whose entire existence was stuffed into pockets and bags.
“You look like police,” she murmured.
“It’s Gardai in this country,”
“Gardee. Guarding what?” she snorted.
Guarding what indeed, he thought.
“I’m paying you only to drive,” said Crowe.
The clicking continued, she mumbled something under her breath. It sounded like “Stronger air freshener,”
He couldn’t be sure.
The cab smelled exotic. A gold watch glowed on her ebony skin; its glass was covered in a faint meshwork of cracks.
“Not paying me enough,” she said.
Crowe slunk further into his seat.
Twelve junctions later, the northbound motorway siphoned off to a dual carriageway that dog-legged onto a secondary road. The silence stretched out to forever. The first signposts for his destination appeared.
“Well, don’t expect any sunshine in Roscarrig, man. The forecast for the summer is terrible,” said Abosede.
“Suits me, I’ve been told to rest,” said Crowe.
“You cannot rest in Dublin?”
“No-one seems to think so,” he paused, pressing his forehead against the window. The faint vibrations of the road coursed through his temples, “I thought I’d get away,”
“Why? The city is where the money is, the money is boss; it crisp, it nice,”
He closed his eyes,
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he said.
“I do know you. Brutality, man. Brutality,” said Abosede.
Like her photo, her braids were piled gloriously high on her head.
“Roscarrig, thanks. No more talk or I will definitely kill you,” he replied.
Crowe’s gaze fell onto the glove compartment, an adhesive 3-D Jesus doled out a plastic benediction. Abosede glanced sideways at him,
“Believe in the Lord Jesus and you will be saved,” she intoned,
“I never trust anyone who’s read just one book,” said Crowe.
The silence descended between them like a pall.
Dilapidated lines of greenhouses amid large tracts of grass, yellow gorse and seas of ragwort sailed past,
“Jacobaea Vulgaris,” he muttered.
He thought about Googling the word ragwort, but like his watch, the blood stained mobile phone was sealed tight and locked away in an evidence bag.
He folded his arms.
Abosede’s tongue started clicking again.
Two bedraggled roundabouts later, they passed a peeling, dirty reflective welcome sign that requested everyone to please drive slowly. The Satnav announced that they had reached their destination. They were on the narrow main street of Roscarrig town.
It was a town dismal and forgotten; out of time and out of luck, thought Crowe. The ragged end of nowhere.
Last stop, he thought.
His destination, Gallagher Estates, had a collage of lettings and sales in its polished shopfront window. The façade was pock-marked with flaking paintwork, darkened by years of HGV diesel fumes. The paving at the front dipped giving the building an air of sagging slowly into the ground.
Crowe peeled off a few twenties for Abosede from a crumpled looking leather tan wallet. He had €200 in it, and €3000 in a money belt, the last of his savings. She smiled a gap-toothed thanks; a semi-precious stone glittered in one of her incisors. Looking around, she scowled,
“This miserable place is nowhere, man. Got no chance of a fare back ‘til the city,” she said.
He added another fifty Euro to her fare,
“I only plan to stay here for a week, maybe two,” replied Crowe.
“In a malevolent no-place like this? A lifetime, man,” she replied.
From an animal print purse, she handed him a business card. It was pristine white and bisected by a thin grey cross,
“My brother has a meeting place, a mission. You welcome anytime,”
“Is that your mobile number along the bottom?” asked Crowe.
“Yes,” she replied.
Soup and salvation. He jammed the card into the pocket of his fleece. The last thing he needed was a lifeline.
Crowe hauled himself out of the taxi and removed his big sports holdall and a backpack. Abosede looked up and down the main street and executed a brisk three-point-turn.
“You do not tarry, man. Do not delay,” she shouted out the window to Crowe.
In the past thirty-six hours, Crowe had abandoned the vape and started mainlining nicotine via the pack of B&H King size 20’s. A spring breeze idled up the main street, tinged with salt and cutting to the bone forcing him to cup his hands around the lighter. Crowe shut his eyes, took a deep pull, revelling in the momentary darkness and then he heard the shop door open. Opening his eyes he saw a tall man come out to meet him. Crowe could see that the man’s well-pressed suit was a decade out of date.
“Gallagher?” asked Crowe.
“That’s me. Are you alright?” he asked.
Crowe shifted the weight of his holdall.
“You look like you’ve come to relax,” continued Gallagher.
“I’ve come here to recover,” replied Crowe.
“I can see that. Quigley was worried about you. I’ve given my secretary, Hilary, an extended lunch. We can talk in the privacy of my office. Is it Pius, John or PJ?”
Crowe thought about Abosede’s mantra,
“John.”
“John it is then,” said Gallagher, “I’m Derry.”
His handshake looked as slippery as his smile.
Crowe ignored the proffered hand. He dropped the half-finished smoke onto the cracked pavement and crushed it.
“Come inside,” said Gallagher.
The office was small, painted in faded tangerine. The atmosphere was a combination of damp, strong perfume, and Chinese food smells. The desk beside Gallagher’s, presumably Hilary’s, was a shining testament to optimism; perched on top of the monitor was a soft toy – a reindeer with a red ‘Merry Christmas’ jumper.
“How do you want to play this – off the books, John?” he asked. Despite the nonchalance, Gallagher seemed nervous and alert.
“Preferably. The less paper the better – cash?” said Crowe.
“Of course. Now, John, I’ll be brutally honest, it’s not much, a garret basically with all the mod cons. Though, it will become a premium Airbnb let after June. Double the rental in fact.” Gallagher tapped his laptop keyboard as if he were headlining Carnegie Hall. No rings, but a solid block of metal watch peeped out of his starched cuffs with novelty blue enamel cuff links of crossed golf clubs.
“Help yourself,” he said, following Crowe’s gaze.
A black and chrome coffee machine shone in pride of place beside a stack of disposable cups. Crowe crushed rather than inserted the pod. Viscous black coffee oozed into the cup.
“How is that old reprobate Quigley, still singing?” asked Gallagher.
“I think so, yes,” said Crowe.
Small UHT milk pots and sugar sachets stood to attention beside a shiny teaspoon. Crowe tore and crushed to get the hit he needed. He used all the milk pots and piled them into the bin.
