A Kind of Drowning, page 14
Hunt. Mr photophobia sunglasses and Lear jet Cheltenham jaunts, thought Crowe.
Then Fionn slapped his hand over his mouth like kid who had spoken out of turn in class. Wide-eyed, he paced a few more times up and down the slipway, stumbling. Crowe edged backwards toward the relative safety of the car park, mindful of the slippery moss under his feet.
Fionn leapt into the Merc. The engine ground to life and the vehicle lurched forward. Crowe side-stepped deftly back onto the car park. The huge engine turned over once, then growled into life. With the smell of burning tyres, the SUV and trailer swung off the slipway and accelerated into the town.
In Crowe’s mind he saw Quigley holding a snifter of brandy. After a hefty swig, he twisted the crystal stopper into the decanter.
“Thought I’d stir the pot, just like old times, Quigley,” murmured Crowe.
“To old times, P.J.”
Quigley. Where the hell was he?
24
“You’ve started a shit-storm, Crowe,” said Thea.
Crowe could smell the salt-tang of burning driftwood from beneath a large steel drum. They were on the beach of the small cove on Inishcarrig, the spit was long and winding into the turbulent sea. It was early evening and it was getting cold. Crowe could hear the crying gulls.
“Run then, Mr. Grumpy,” she said, it was Thea, but somehow even more so. Her eyes had sunken into her skull, the skin tight and yellow, her hair was lank and unkempt. It was missing in places around her waxen skull.
The breeze was picking up. Thea looked up,
“He’s coming,” she said.
Sounds of laughter came from behind. Crowe turned; Alison was there, in her jeans and heavy jumper. She was wearing her hair up. Unable to move, rooted to the spot, Crowe watched helplessly as Alison turned and started walking along the spit,
“Give Cathal a kiss for me,” he shouted.
Alison ignored him and started walking out to sea along the spit…
Crowe woke up in a sweat. Checking his phone the time read 11:00am. No messages returned by Quigley. Crowe dialled but was only going straight to voicemail.
Where the fuck was the fat chungus bastard?
Opening the curtains, he studied the pall of cloud that belched intense pulses of rain across Roscarrig. Through the glass, the roofs of the town resembled a smeared charcoal sketch. The courtyard below was shiny with exploding droplets. A gutter opposite was a waterfall, drumming onto the bins. There was no sign of the fox, come to think of it, he hadn’t seen it in a few days. He surveyed the room; a stack of lager cans lay strewn around a three-quarter empty bottle of Jameson which had toppled over. A crumpled fish and chip supper bag stood sentinel at the table’s edge. After doing several fruitless circuits and smarting from the dinner from hell, he had eventually found the main street and stumbled upon a chip shop about to close up for the night.
Opening out the window, Crowe tossed out the greasy paper bag and watched its buffeted descent more out of hope than anything else. It sycamored gracefully, landing between the bins.
“Come and get it, fox” he whispered as he wrestled the window shut.
The damp yellow tee stretched across his gut. He found amid the cans, an unfinished shot glass of whiskey shining like an amber jewel. He swilled and downed it in a gulp. Scratching himself idly, he opened a new pack of cigarettes. The nicotine hit his synapses like a freight train. He put the kettle on and pulled on a fleece and reasonably clean sweat pants. As he stowed away the bed and bundled the bedding, he heard the bang of the outer door.
His phone beeped a message from Derry – TROUBLE ON THE WAY NOW!
What the fuck was Gallagher going on about?
Through the funk of an hangover, he thought that maybe Gallagher was planning to evict him;. Crowe eyed the defunct smoke alarm guiltily.
He looked around his living room. He took down the case board and slid it under the sofa bed. He tidied up the table and put the pens, post-its and A4 pads in a cupboard. As a precaution he slotted his phone in his pocket with the voice recorder activated.
The coke.
He walked into the bathroom and with a few folded sheets of toilet paper, he reached under the S-bend and retrieved it. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of the hoodie.
He heard Gallagher’s booming voice rising through the three flights of stairwell. As an early warning system, Gallagher had his uses. Crowe steeled himself. He positioned himself as far away from the front door as possible, pressing his back against the kitchen wall.
He heard the key in the garret’s lock rattle and turn and the door opened.
In walked Gallagher followed by Teflon D, cap pulled low and chomping on gum like a twelve year old.
“Nice company you’re keeping these days, Derry,” said Crowe.
“You’ve been asking after me, hassling my kid and generally disturbing the peace, so I thought I’d pop around and introduce myself, formally - I’m Desmond,”
Teflon held out a hand, the thumb was missing. Teflon D himself in the flesh.
“I know who you are,” said Crowe.
“Don’t leave me hanging?” said Teflon D. His hand remained extended. Crowe folded his arms.
“We’ve met already,” said Crowe,
“Don’t remember it, sport,”
“Roman coins, Vikings and moving contraband. Seems your son, Fionn has taken up your interest in local archaeology? As I always say, a man should have a hobby. Meant to ask that day, what happened there, Des?”
Crowe nodded to the missing digit.
Teflon D with his other thumb pushed the baseball cap high on his head and gave a rueful smile,
“This? Oh, Lost that thumb here to a Chinaman. You see, I had notions, yes, ideas about myself and my place in the world. Told a Chink to fuck off over an unpaid debt and lost a thumb for my troubles. They tossed it in the canal right in front of me. They left me by the canal bank. Broken nose, two teeth on the ground and a missing thumb. I had to walk two miles to a hospital as they’d taken my wallet. Rookie mistake, I was only a chisler then. A salutary lesson, sport. A salutary lesson. One you are about to learn, sport,” said Teflon D.
His smile was pulled taut around his skull. Crowe took in Teflon, built like a spinning top and giving off kingpin waves like a full-power microwave oven. He smelled of shower gel and chewing gum. Underneath the Northface jacket, body armour creaked. Kevlar, the urban criminal’s badge of honour. “So gents, what’s the story?” said Crowe.
“Desmond here wanted to have a chat with you,” said Gallagher.
Sweat was beading around Gallagher’s face, his carefully woven hair was coming loose. He looked terrified.
“Well, here I am,” said Crowe. His levelled gaze at Teflon said, you’re nothing but shit on the shoe…
Teflon raised his hand up toward Gallagher in a genial karate chop. Gallagher flinched like a beaten dog. Teflon D leered,
“Your friend Derry here, smells like a tart’s handkerchief, doesn’t he? All hand cream, aftershave, and hairspray. Not like us working men, you, and me. I’ve always hated the smell of eau de toilette. Spent a summer on the killing floor in a slaughterhouse in Perth; blood, piss, shit, dead meat, and the girls on the packing lines sweating out their deodorants, well, those that bothered. One hell of a stench, Crowe isn’t it? Garda Inspector Pius John Crowe? I’ll get to the point; I think you’re in the wrong town, sport,”
“You think so?” replied Crowe.
“Know so,” said Teflon D, “I think you need to find a new one.”
“New one?” said Crowe, refusing to be baited.
His grip around the twist of coke tightened. He kept both hands in his hoodie.
“I’ll be brief. I hear you’ve been sniffing around; asking questions, making general enquiries and being an all-round, fucking pain in the arse. So I start asking around myself and lo and behold, I discover the old pig, Quigley has a new tenant. Another copper, a pig. Imagine that? Then I hear he’s the YouTube sensation, Pius John Crowe. AKA ‘PODGE’. Hashtag MadGardaBastard. One step from a suicide, I hear. A burn-out, a fuck-up and a mental case to boot – is that true?” grinned Teflon D.
Crowe remained silent and stared.
“Then I’m asking my ol’ segotia, Derry here; he and Quigley go back a ways, funny money and bouncing cheques, so the story goes. And I ask him: Where. The. Fuck. Is the burn-out? And now here we are. SO, pig, you need to find a new location. The last thing I need is some basket case hobbling around my town. Or making a nuisance of himself on my island. It is what it is,”
“I thought Quigley had warned you, your days are numbered?” said Crowe.
“I told him, I said ‘you’re retired and riddled with cancer, Quigley - why don’t you fuck off somewhere with a fishing rod and enjoy whatever time is left? Get right with your God, sport’ Maybe that’s what he’s done. Gone fishin’,”
Cancer, thought Crowe, how would a scumbag like Teflon know?
“Unlike Quigley, I doubt you’ll be around long enough to see the old age pension, Teflon,” replied Crowe.
This raised a nervous titter from Gallagher.
“A warning from a burned-out pig and another one from a pig that’s dying - now I’m intrigued,” murmured Teflon D.
“I’m not leaving Roscarrig until I find out what happened to the girl,” said Crowe. Time to wrong foot this goon before he starts waxing lyrical again.
“What girl?” replied Teflon D.
“The girl who drowned, Thea.” said Crowe.
“The dummy? The slow person, the special needs kid? No loss, the world is better off without it,”
Crowe’s sudden flash of anger spurred Teflon on,
“Collateral damage, former Garda Inspector Pius John Crowe. As I always say, the devil is in the detail the - Ts and Cs. If they’re too fucking slow to understand I can’t accept any responsibility,”
Crowe watched Teflon take a step closer. Menace flowed from every pore.
Come on, thought Crowe. Get a little closer, fuckwit. How much battery life was left on the phone? The two men’s shoes squeaked, and the floorboards groaned as the space between them tightened.
“Her name was Thea,” said Crowe, “T-H-E-A,”
“Why are you speaking slowly?” asked Teflon.
“Because I’m not sure you understand basic English, Sport. You look a bit fucking special yourself,” said Crowe.
Crowe was ready for the punch. He rolled his head with it. Teflon grunted with the exertion. The vest must have inhibited his swing, but the explosion across Crowe’s jaw did enough to cause some bleeding to the gums.
“Gentlemen, please!” shouted Gallagher.
“Get your fucking hands up, you cunt,” hissed Teflon D.
Crowe just grinned. Their eyes locked. Then Teflon D produced a pistol. He brandished it around Crowe’s face like a conjuror pulling a bazooka out of a hat.
A Walther P99. Fuck.
“Threatening a member of the public with a firearm? In front of a witness?” said Crowe.
“Derry here, knows the score. He’ll keep shtum. As I said, moron, you’re in the wrong town. You have until midnight to get off my patch,”
“Or?”
“I’ll pay another visit. Put a bullet in your spine and fuck you up like a road accident. After that, I’ll find that son of yours, Cathal isn’t it? Kid crying on YouTube? Did me a little search before we arrived. He’d be easy to find and I’ll put a bullet in his skull. Fuck him up too,” grinned Teflon D.
Crowe’s head butt was so fast, Gallagher thought he had been seeing things. The clash of skulls sounded like a wrecking ball swinging between a pair of rhinos. The gun clattered to the floor and Crowe wrangled enough space to lock Teflon D in a head lock and deliver two hefty blows into the side of the neckless skull.
“I’ll think about it,” said Crowe.
Gallagher got himself between them.
“Jesus, lads, stop.”
His voice was shrill.
“STOP.”
The three wrenched themselves free. Crowe kicked the pistol away towards the door. Teflon straightened up and swung. Crowe dodged it but collided with the table. Teflon clawed air. Gallagher dived back in between them. He turned and tried to herd Teflon toward the door.
“I’ve business to attend to today. I want you out by midnight. Off my turf do you understand, pig? Off my turf,” Teflon spat at Crowe.
“I’m staying. I like it here, taking the air is conducive for my recuperation,” said Crowe, he tugged his hoodie back into shape and ran his tongue around his gums. A little blood, but nothing loose.
“No one will mourn a burn-out like you. I’d be doing your bosses a favour putting you out of your misery. Time to get right with your God, dickwad.”
Teflon picked up the gun and slid it under the jacket.
“let’s go Gallagher,”
“Where are you off to lads? Anywhere nice? Can I come along?” said Crowe.
“Fuck off, Looney Tunes,” said Teflon D.
“In your car, Derry? Hope you’re not up to any shenanigans with Thumbelina there?” said Crowe.
Gallagher made pleading eyes through his glasses, then turned on his heel.
Teflon turned and glowered as Gallagher cajoled him out. He made a shooting gesture with his left hand.
Crowe was shaken. He lit a cigarette and poured another whiskey, emptying the last of the bottle. He rinsed the alcohol around his mouth and spat into the sink. A few rivulets of blood, but nothing serious. So, Thumbelina threatened to shoot Cathal, a man who would threaten a child would hurt one too under the right conditions.
To hurt a woman wouldn’t be a leap. A young woman like Thea.
The twist of cocaine, that little inconvenient hit was now wedged securely in Teflon D’s windcheater.
Crowe reached for his mobile and stopped the recorder. He played the recording back, it was indistinct in places, but Teflon-one-thumb’s voice was clear. Pity no-one had shouted ‘GUN!’ He sent the audio as an attachment to Liv Cutts.
Then he dialled 999, as any concerned citizen would do if they suspected a crime. He gave his name, former rank, and badge number. Derry’s car registration was easy to remember, and for good measure, Crowe added the make and colour. Maybe THE BIG MACHINE was ready to forgive.
Every little helps, he thought. He had to be somewhere himself.
In the bathroom, he checked his face for any bruising. His left eye was still smarting from Teflon’s headbutt. All he could see in his left side vision was a deep red with a cosmos of dancing yellow dots. His jaw on that side radiated pain. It felt swollen. That said looking at the reflection, outwardly, he thought he’d pass muster. Then Crowe shaved, working the razor gingerly around the sore points and as he towelled his face, went to the kitchen to boil the kettle for a coffee. He made a cup of instant, lit a cigarette and scanned around the room to see if anything would make a good parcel.
Then he donned his heavy black fleece, tugged on the hi-viz vest, and pulled his baseball cap down low over his eyebrows.
***
The old vicarage Aoife had mentioned in the restaurant wasn’t hard to find. Crowe must have passed it dozens of times on his walks, but it’s obscurity and foliage had made it inconspicuous. It was situated in off the coast road, with a spectacular rolling view of Inishcarrig. The high wall and the house’s grand façade was made of old stone peppered with ancient dark green ivy. A bank of security cameras along the guttering and a modern-looking keypad inset at the high gate told Crowe all he needed to know. In his hand he had a library book stuffed into a chip bag and sellotaped up. There’d be hell to pay with Clodagh about the grease stains, but that would be later.
He pressed the intercom buzzer, a crackling ‘yes?’ came through. He held the package up at the small camera,
“I’ve a delivery for Mr. Hunt?” said Crowe.
There was a pause,
“Registered post – for Hunt?”
The gates whirred open and he walked up the crescent-shaped pebble driveway framed by neatly tended beds. He looked at the heavy duty lawn roller propped against the ride-on mower and side-stepped past the freshly planted saplings, bound and staked to the earth. Crowe wandered around to the back of the building.
There he found two jet-skis mounted on a trailer.
Without breaking stride, he photographed them with his phone and made his way to the front door. For once he had a strong signal and sent the images to Cutts’ mobile. He remembered when freshly minted out of Templemore, he had walked the beat with Quigley,
“How do you find a crime?” he’d asked.
“Simple, son,” Quigley replied, “You fall over it,”
Crowe rang the ornate doorbell and waited patiently to see who would open the door.
25
Ephraim Hunt didn’t do quieter moments. Quieter moments meant something was happening elsewhere outside of his ken. It was his mind tossing ideas around like a monkey house on Red Bull, that had made him the success he was – or had been. It was all about mindset. Beside his expensive espresso machine, his replacement iPhone pulsed to the beat of the modern-day Netizen. The wall mounted flatscreen was showing a news report; people in facemasks confronting lines of riot police who were firing tear gas into them. This Avian Flu seemed to be popping up everywhere, stealthily appearing on all the social media feeds. The markets were getting jittery; the Nikkei and Hang Sen were looking like disaster zones right now. Dow Jones and FTSE just as unstable.
His view of Dublin was marred by the rain, meddling with his buzz. The Samuel Beckett Bridge, pristine, strung and white, guided his eyes along the grey river Liffey as it snaked back towards the Four Courts. His gaze then continued out to the high rises of Kilmainham and further out to the distant gang turfs of Crumlin and Tallaght where he’d dragged himself into rough respectability.
Lean and toned from a ruthless regime of squats, five-a-side football, and charity half-marathons, he skated across the kitchen. Along the corridor of his penthouse, framed pictures of his wild-card successes hung on one side like the platinum and gold discs of a 1970’s Billboard Top 100. On the opposite wall, he posed with the various MMA warrior gods caught in the camera flash, with his default ‘What? Who me?’ expression for the camera. The local boy done good pose. He was the comeback kid, Mr. Fleetwood Mac. In five hours, Hunt and his legal team would wrench a decade of confiscated tenders and plans out of the bear-trap of NAMA. Then the party would begin big-time. He had champagne cooling in the vast fridge, a new box of Lonsdale’s ready to be broken out and a crème-de-la-crème pouch of Columbian pure white gold ready for the celebration.
