A Kind of Drowning, page 2
There was a basic office chair facing the desk. Derry Gallagher liked to conduct brisk business. The metal and plastic sighed under Crowe’s weight.
The small cream-coloured printer at Gallagher’s elbow began whirring into life.
“Let’s start with a month’s rent. Cash. Right now?” said Crowe.
“That would certainly do it.” Gallagher grinned.
Crowe stood and opened a money belt. It seemed to offer underwire support to his gut. He handed it to Gallagher.
“Could you hold on to this, I’d like to make withdrawals without drawing too much attention?”
“Business hours are 9am to 5:30,” replied Gallagher. He pinched the belt between thumb and forefinger regarding it as if it were roadkill and placed it in the safe., “After 6pm, there’s an after-hours surcharge,”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” replied Crowe.
With a flourish, Gallagher handed over the print-out.
“I see Quigley is the owner / occupier on the lease?” said Crowe.
“He bought it ten years ago.”
“Trust Quigley to find somewhere completely anonymous and off-the-grid in twenty-first century Ireland,” murmured Crowe.
He shifted his weight in the chair as he drained the last of his coffee. The frame gave a warning crack and a groan. Gallagher glanced over in concern,
“Tell you what, John, I’ll take you out for lunch, show you around and then take you to your new digs. My shout. Throw the luggage in the boot.”
He give the chair a good lash of the disinfectant wipe as Crowe reached for his bags.
Roscarrig was as Crowe expected, a mix of aged thatch cottages and tightly packed 1950’s two storey pebble dash houses fighting for any available space along the main street. TO LET signs hung over a line of shuttered premises where Gallagher’s Lexus was parked in a disabled spot. A church, local community centre, two pubs, Chinese takeaways, Polski Sklep, Post Office and a bookies flowed past the passenger window. A corner shop festooned with floral hanging baskets made a heroic attempt at a little local colour. Its wares were arranged in wooden trays on metal trestles beneath white cursive that stated – ‘Today’s specials’.
“Eleven years ago, Roscarrig had a population of fifteen hundred. Today, its ten thousand – mostly starter homes. Commuter-belt first-time buyers. It’s a ghost town between seven am and five-thirty. I can recommend the golf course,” said Gallagher.
“Don’t play it,” replied Crowe.
“A man should have a hobby – we have a library, a good one, I believe. We have a local GAA club, a rowing club on the outskirts, but that’s about it. Food-wise it’s the usual haute cuisine of burgers and chips or cattery-chow-mein if that’s your thing, though a new café has opened facing the Harbour – The Boogie-Woogie, great open prawn sandwiches.”
The main street wove past a stone horseshoe harbour where a few small fishing boats, skiffs and larger trawlers sat moored. A latticework of ropes held them tightly to the harbour wall. The road meandered along lines of fields where labourers toiled in bright Day-Glo, amid muddied John Deeres and canvas sided trailers. It snaked along the coast for several miles. Long lines of houses, new builds and estates were pocketed suddenly amid the fields, giving the whole town a loosely assembled appearance. A train station and an Aldi supermarket marked the town’s outer boundary. A simple graveyard with a ruined old church stood sentinel on the border and the road disappeared over a rise to the next town of Farandore.
Crowe glanced at his watch only to remember he didn’t have one.
Not anymore.
“It’s always been a small fishing town, really. If you’re up early enough you can purchase some of the catch when the boats come in. And over this rise, the piece de resistance; Inishcarrig,” said Gallagher.
They pulled up to a dusty, worn-out siding bordered by nettles.
It was a large island, several miles across. A Martello tower and compact old house were visible on the western lee. Behind it, shrouded in mist close to the horizon was the two-tone markings of a light house. Fishing boats bisected the channel between Inishcarrig and the mainland, laying out nets and lobster pots. Orange markers bobbed in the currents. The sun fought its way through the gloom, dappling the island in yellows, greens, and rich ambers. Crowe filled his lungs with sea air.
The possibility of summer rolled around his chest.
Gallagher viewed the island like an unrequited love,
“It’s owned by the Canadian property billionaire, Richard Norcott. Messy divorce, wife wants half of his fortune, new high-maintenance squeeze and rumour has it, Inishcarrig is on the negotiating table. Now, I’m starving – let’s hit the Boogie-Woogie Café,” said Gallagher.
He launched the Lexus into a sharp reverse. Grinding the gears, Gallagher slid the car onto the road and accelerated toward the town. The stone harbour came into view.
2
Situated on a street corner, the Boogie-Woogie Café offered two views from the high plate glass windows: the harbour with the moored trawlers and the stretch of sea to Inishcarrig. The walls had an eclectic array of kitsch gelato posters and fading French lavender fields mounted on the faux-brick walls. Tables and chairs were closely packed across the dark parquet floor. The crowd was mostly elderly, female, and huddled in chattering groups. One had a yappy Pomeranian. It seemed to want to join in the conversations. A plexi-glass counter displayed an array of pastries, savouries, and sandwiches. A slate menu board offered today’s specials scrawled in multi-coloured chalk. If Roscarrig was slowly checking out on the gurney, The Boogie-Woogie Café was the last bright pulse on the monitor.
“Sorry for the delay, lads, the kitchen porter didn’t bother showing up today,” said the waitress. She had an oriental-themed tattoo sleeve on one arm, the three surgical plasters on the other suggested she was going for a full house. A spider had been etched below her heavily pierced right ear. A severe ponytail stretched her features and her eyes were set to default bored.
Crowe momentarily thought the spider had come to life. He fought the sudden unease.
“Lauren, isn’t it?” asked Gallagher.
“Uh huh,” replied Lauren.
“I was here yesterday, Derry. Derry Gallagher,”
“Yeah… I remember – you had the special. Any craic?” said Lauren.
“No – you?” grinned Gallagher.
Lauren looked around,
“We’ve a new girl starting this week. You’ll love her, the Farrell girl. Thea. Total sweetheart.”
The chatter of life and the feel-good ambience made Crowe feel stronger than he had in five weeks, when the days had felt like slipping into deep dark water, without any ray of light. He needed to get well again, get sharp and deal with the demons. He ordered a toasted three cheese on white with a side of fries. Coffee - black. He scoured the condiments and pulled two vinegar pouches, he commandeered the salt and nudged the offending pepper towards Gallagher.
Lauren jotted the order down. Pulled a beeping mobile out of her tight jeans. Made a very teenage moue. Scrolled. Stabbed the screen with her thumb and then wandered over to the next table.
Gallagher took the napkin and wiped the cutlery down. Once that task was completed, he wiped the place mat and the area around it.
“I’m fine, thanks,” said Crowe.
Gallagher sighed, a little miffed.
A sudden commotion outside made everyone look up. One of the tables on the terrace was attacked by a trio of seagulls. They circled, swooped, and landed on the table stamping and scattering plates, coffee mugs and cutlery. The startled couple leapt out of their seats to the feral shrieks of the birds. A contest of flapping, feinting, swiping, dodging, and squawking ensued. The woman, swinging her handbag connected with one of the gulls, clattering it into the window. The glass shuddered from the impact.
The conversations around the café slowly piped up, but the Pomeranian remained silent.
“Never seen that before,” said Gallagher.
“Never a dull moment,” said Crowe,
The food arrived. Crowe drenched the fries in vinegar. He emptied three sachets of sugar into the Americano.
“Three’s my lucky number, Derry,” he said.
Gallagher stared back in horror,
“Type-2 diabetes doesn’t worry you then?” he said.
“Nope,” mumbled Crowe forcing the sandwich into his mouth. A smear of cheese was pushed aside by the heel of his hand.
They ate lost in their own thoughts amid the shrill and raucous laughter of contented retirement, punctuated by subdued Pomeranian yaks.
Gallagher paid the bill, swiping his card like a magic wand. He didn’t give a tip and requested a receipt which he carefully folded into a square. With a cheery wave to the septuagenarian audience, they drove to Crowe’s new digs.
Which lived up to Gallagher’s billing. Perched on top of a Chinese takeaway named The Dragon Inn, it was small. A bedsit with loftier ambitions. The ceiling was white with inset lights, the walls were a matt magnolia and the flooring looked bargain laminate. That said, the garret-cum-bedsit looked clean and well maintained and smelled of mild citrus detergent. Microwave, gas hob, tiny electric oven, pocket-sized fridge, and a leather settee, it reminded Crowe of a VW camper on breeze blocks.
“Fold-out sofa bed, electric shower is in the bathroom,” said Gallagher.
A sofa-bed. Crowe’s spine began to protest at the prospect.
A small flat screen TV was mounted on the wall over an old empty fireplace. Two radiators ensured that if necessary, the winter would be snug. A skylight fitted into the ceiling brought the onshore breezes in. The other window, overlooking a neglected courtyard promised fried rice and grease smells daily.
“Day or night, I’m on the end of a phone, John; any friend of Quigs is a friend of mine,” he said.
Gallagher must have really, really fucked up somewhere along the line to have Quigley as a friend.
“If you need anything else?” asked Gallagher.
“No. Thank you,” replied Crowe.
Gallagher offered a sweaty hand and this time Crowe shook it.
“See you ‘round, Squire,” said Gallagher.
Crowe folded out his hold-all and began his new life stacking shelves with T-shirts, underwear, and socks. He ran a cold, cold shower to wake himself from the stupor of existence. He glanced in the mirror and looked away; he’d hunt down a disposable razor in the supermarket some other time. Reaching into his pocket, Crowe found the twist of coke, the wrapping smeared with his fingerprints. He’d been given the gram as he had left the HR hearing. Union Rep Harris had his uses. He wiped the packet clean and searching around, hid it under the S-bend of the toilet – easy to flush should the need ever arise.
Crowe lit up his cigarette from the gas hob. Looking around for the source of the rapidly increasing beeps of the smoke alarm, he found it over the hob, pulled it apart and prised out the battery. Then he filled the electric kettle and rummaged around the shelves for a teabag.
He thought about the kitchen porter who hadn’t shown up for work at the Boogie-Woogie. The less he saw of Gallagher, the happier his recuperation would be.
3
Sleep had eluded Crowe. Past cases had forced their way into his head, denying him rest. Fighting the rising sensation of being overwhelmed, he folded up the sofa bed and put the kettle on. From the cupboard, he took out a jar of instant coffee. He looked up at the clock on the wall. 3am, the midnight of the soul, the time when death usually came knocking. The clock with “Time for tea” in cheery cursive tried its best to bring some colour to the beige banality. The smoke alarm battery offered an object to rotate on the kitchen table in tight circles. When he got bored with that, he paced out the room; fourteen paces long by six paces wide. After several mulling circuits, Crowe sat and smoked, he drank the cold milky coffee, and spun a cheap red plastic lighter. The remains of last night’s meal, a large single of chips from the take-away, lay folded on the table. Its greasy smell lingered in the pokey kitchen. Some of it remained cloying in his beard.
Crowe shut his eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, the past unfurled like a ghost appearing at the banquet. He pictured the Internal Affairs members around the kitchen table like an instant replay, he inched his hand protectively toward the crumpled chip bag.
Hungry bastards.
“What were you thinking, Garda Inspector Crowe?” asked Crowe’s superior, Chief Superintendent Dáithí O’Suilleabháin; – the ramrod-straight Cork man who strode through the office everyday like he was lining out for an All-Ireland final.
Beside O’Suilleabháin, the head of HR, Stephanie Townsend had sat angular and ironed into her sombre suit.
“Hardly Champions League now was it, Inspector Crowe?” said Townsend.
The tapes had been rolling. Her withering gaze didn’t flinch as Crowe had said his piece at the top of his lungs.
Sitting beside him was his Union Rep, Harris, who was making a careful study of his long thin spired fingers as the hearing became a spectacular one-man train wreck. He sat silent.
Crowe had got the gist from Townsend’s cool reply – Government front bench reshuffle last week, new Minister of Justice; Noirín Gartland; keen to make her mark; Sees herself as a new broom dealing with old male archetypes in the force. If Inspector Crowe had behaved appropriately and not lost his temper, his name and face wouldn’t be appearing from here to Timbuktu.
Crowe knew it. Harris knew it and O’Suilleabháin knew it too. THE BIG MACHINE had spoken, and in the space of a week after that informal investigation, the resolution was swift and brutal. He was out, suspended without pay for three months. He had needed cash; he had needed a phone.
He had needed to talk to Quigley.
Crowe shut his eyes, forcing himself into the now. His vision was watery when he opened them again.
“Well, that went well,” he said out loud.
He looked up at the clock. The hours felt leaden and dawn fell heavy around his shoulders as it crept in through the window shades. He tried not to see the spiders scurrying in his peripheral vision or hear the whispering click-click weaving from their spinnerets in his shuttered mind.
All of a sudden, he wasn’t sure where he was. He needed something tangible, some anchor to the day. Crowe felt a tug of envy at the sound of Roscarrig waking up; the chirrup of car alarms and over-revved engines departing for the rush hour, funnelled along the main street, pumped out like metallic beads onto the motorway. He didn’t have a car of his own, not anymore. Trying to escape, he had glanced his VW off a stationary bus and collided with a tree. The marks of the airbag on his face had subsided somewhat, but shaving was still an exercise in torture.
His boxers hung limply around his hips, he had to hitch them up as he rose to rinse the plate and cup. Crowe swilled the remaining dregs and downed them in a gulp. Then he heard the bang of the outer door. A second later a cold blast of air wound its way through the garret and pinched at his toes.
He heard the lock turn.
Quigley let himself in,
“The place stinks. Would you open a window for Jaysus sake?” he said.
“…and how are you this fine morning, Quigley?” said Crowe.
Quigley’s grey eyes took in the kitchen with a glance. His slicked back hair, now white, made him look like Marlon Brando. If you did well, it was ‘son’. If you fucked-up, you were a ‘pup’. Retired Garda Sergeant Proinsias Quigley’s world was black and white.
“Living the dream, son,” he said, “If you have a brew on…?”
Crowe searched for a second cup. He found a chipped one at the back of the shelf and blew off the dust. He rinsed it under the tap and pushed the extractor fan on. It wheezed into life.
From a plastic shopping bag, Quigley pulled out a mobile phone.
It was an android with a charger, its lead was bound in a thick elastic band.
“Thanks for the help. The cash, this place.” asked Crowe.
“I figured you’d need one of these too. This is the Wifi code for the apartment.”
“Derry Gallagher tells me the reception is bad out here,” said Crowe.
Quigley tossed the phone onto the table, his big hands sweeping the crumbs off, grabbing the chip bag, he put it in the pedal bin. He then spotted the battery lying on the table. Eyeing the mountain of butts in the saucer beside it, he sought out the smoke alarm. He unscrewed the alarm from its ceiling mounting and slammed home the battery. Pressing on the check button he smiled at the little squeak it emitted.
“Gallagher couldn’t find his arse if his hands were tied behind his back. If you disconnect the smoke alarm again, P.J., you’re out on the street, no messing, yeah?” said Quigley.
He slid the other kitchen chair over to the table. Leaning his elbows onto the surface, the table listed towards him.
“Any friends you can reach out to?” he asked.
One of the last of the old beat cops, Quigley had known all the safe houses, known all the characters. Nothing escaped him. He held his gaze until Crowe blinked. From the fleece hanging from the door, Crowe produced a letter. It was in a brown envelope with the official stamp of the harp.
He handed it to Quigley,
“Apart from you?” said Crowe.
Quigley opened out the letter.
Private and Confidential:
“In Accordance with S.I. 214 of 2007, Section 123 of The Garda Síochána Act 2005…”
“...It is the opinion of the Garda Commissioner that on review of the disciplinary hearing...”
Quigley skimmed to the punchline:
“It is the decision of the Commissioner that you, Garda Inspector Pius John Crowe are hereby suspended for three months without pay for that duration, thereafter, to be reviewed on a date decided by the Commissioner…”
“Murder Squad will be under pressure without you,” said Quigley.
He handed it back to former Garda Inspector Pius John Crowe. It was a badge like a leper’s bell.
