A Kind of Drowning, page 6
“Got a pencil? Pen?” he asked Thea.
Without looking up she took her biro out of her scrunchy and handed it to him. He jotted down some facts on the back of them. He handed the pen back, she slotted it into her scrunchy. One of Lauren’s tells.
Thea folded out Mel’s latest VIP magazine.
“I like celebrities, I love Casey Clarke,” she said, “Cooking with Casey Clarke – JUST SIMPLE!”
It was a good impersonation.
Crowe slid Quigley’s message closed and turned the magazine towards him. It was a nightclub somewhere in Dublin. Casey kissing Hunt, the kiss loaded for the camera phones around them. A match made in bloggerverse heaven,
“She’s very pretty,” replied Crowe.
Lauren passed by and looked over his shoulder,
“Ephraim Hunt, don’t like him. Fucking cokehead. Chasing young girls. A nonce.”
She took the magazine,
“It’s Thea’s,” said Crowe.
“It’s mine,” said Thea,
“Says there that Casey is twenty two?” said Crowe.
“Twenty two, Lauren,” intoned Thea.
“Well, he looks about sixty. Your age, old man,” said Lauren,
“Says here, he’s thirty eight?” said Thea. She circled a neat finger nail around the caption under the picture.
“C will do that to you, Thea. Nonce. Him, not you, Crowe. The nonce snorts two tramlines through a Ben Franklin, yeah? That’s a $100-dollar bill, yeah? All the time. Thea’s dad legit told me.”
Crowe flashed a glance at Thea. He saw a momentary unease.
“How would he know that?” asked Crowe taking the magazine off Lauren carefully.
He handed it over to Thea.
“He told me. He was laying floors last year. Saw him do it. Right in front of everyone, doesn’t give a fuck,” said Lauren, “those stupid yellow sunglasses he wears supposed to be photophobia, yeah? Real reason coked to fuck twenty-four seven. Truth,”
Thea blushed.
“You missed your calling, Lauren. You should be writing for this rag,” said Crowe.
“It’s not a rag,” said Thea.
She spread the magazine out and splayed her fingers, pressing down the edges and returned to her read.
Lauren, suddenly frozen out by Crowe and Thea reading, hovered, then headed out to the tables.
“Lauren’s funny,” announced Thea, “I am going to a party with her this weekend. A school reunion.”
She reached for a packet of crisps and gave the bag a squeeze. An impish grin followed when the top opened with a loud pop. Pavel and Maciej looked up as if the gag were already old.
She offered the open bag to Crowe.
“That’s one word for her,” he said. Though it was the first time the spider tattoo had stopped moving, “will she watch out for you?”
Thea opened out the bag, laying it flat between them and they shared the crisps. Crowe prised the spare bread roll apart and packed it full of them.
“Of course, silly billy. I know her since I was five,” said Thea without looking up, “It is in the GAA club. She is going to do my hair.”
“Thea, do you know how to delete a message on a phone in drafts?” he asked.
Without looking away from the article. She took Crowe’s phone, glanced up and tapped the screen.
"Here you go,” she said, “You need a screen protector,”
The suicide text was now just binary dust.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
It was just after the lunchtime rush had abated, tables were cleared, the sink was piled up and the café was gearing up for the early bird. Lauren and Lucy had skulked past to grab a quick smoke in the alley. Pavel and Maciej were in the alley too, taking an unscheduled smoke break. Mel had left to run an errand, leaving the crew unsupervised.
Crowe hadn’t been aware of anything at first as he sluiced the pots and pans, but raised voices drifted into the kitchen.
MONGOLOID. It echoed. Crowe stopped. The chant was repeated, the voices young and harsh.
Before he could think it through, Crowe was out of the kitchen and into the café.
Thea was shaking and crying, her shoulders heaving. Three men who were old enough to know better were pointing at a broken pile of ice cream, drinks, and glass,
“You fuckin’ retard! Watch what you’re doing, you dummy.” yelled one man. He was in a hoodie, “What sort of place employs a freak?”
“Mon-gol-oid, she’s mon-gol-oid,” sang the other hoodie. He sported a fade haircut, virtually shaved pink at the back and sides. A gelled mane swirled upwards like icing sugar.
Three pups, Quigley would have called them. Where the hell was Lauren? He needed her and Lucy. Lucy would scare the shit out of Satan himself.
Crowe thought about running to the alley for the girls. Three against one. Tight odds even if the yahoos remained sitting.
“It’s okay, Thea,” said Crowe, “You go back and find Lauren. I’ll clean this up.”
She turned and dashed to the kitchen, wracked with sobs.
“It has a name? The mong has a name?” laughed Fade. He flicked his attention to Crowe. “You’re a sad fat bastard in the pink apron,” he sneered, “You fucking her, fat boy?”
“Might be time to finish up, lads,” said Crowe.
He looked around the café, one table was occupied, an elderly couple studiously ignoring the scene.
No help.
“We ordered three ice-creams, special needs here fucking dropped them,” said Fade.
“Her name is Thea,” said Crowe.
“Thea fucktard,” said Mr. Hoodie. He was big, built on take-aways, crisps and litres of carbonated sugar. His gaze was unwavering, cold, calculating.
“Thea fucktard mongoloid,” he said.
“Mon. Go. Loid,” Fade mouthed. He made lapping gestures with his tongue.
“Right lads, that’s enough,” said Crowe.
It was the third one at the table that Crowe was worried about. The one that hadn’t said a word but took everything in. He was thin, rat-like. The big bastards, after a truncheon to the gut, would fold up and cry. It was the small ones you had to worry about. A little fucker like this one, beaten down from the day he was born, wouldn’t go down as easy.
He’d make a fight of it.
“Take your order elsewhere, gents, if you please,” said Crowe.
“Or?” challenged fat hoodie.
“Or I’ll have to ask you to leave,” said Crowe.
“In a pink fucking apron?” said Fade.
“It’ll be red in a few moments, son. Now I’m afraid, gentlemen, I’ll have to insist.” said Crowe. He’d pitched his voice to a tone lower.
Great, he thought, now I’m Batman.
“You can take our order, just no mongs near the table, yeah? No retarded slow cunts,” Ratty had decided to speak.
“No slow people,” chimed hoodie number one.
“Sorry, lads, the kitchen’s closed. Get your 99’s or whatever you ordered somewhere else.”
The three stood up simultaneously.
Crowe took a single step back,
“Let’s all leave nicely now,” said Crowe.
He scanned the table. No mobiles. Nothing to film. He looked around. No one was watching. The elderly couple were bent into a newspaper. Crowe studied the floor, the creeping ice cream, amid the shattered glass.
“Go fuck yourself, you fat cunt,” said hoodie number one.
Crowe’s movements were instinctive. He delivered a kick to hoodie’s knee that collapsed him onto the glass and melted sundae. Hoodie writhed and cried out. Some glass had entered his leg. One shard stuck out like a bloodied finger. Crowe bent down and hoisting him up by the hood, ensured on the way back up his skull connected with the face of Fade 2. Fade 2’s nose exploded, streaming blood down his wispy moustache. Crowe dropped Hoodie back onto the floor and delivered a swift toe poke into his face.
Two noses shattered. Not bad.
Ratty immediately backed away. But only a few inches. Crowe couldn’t see what he was holding in the right hand.
“Sorry about that, the floor’s a little slippy,” said Crowe, “That’ll be €20, lads.”
“Fhuk-uuff!” roared Fade. His face was a mask of red as he tried to wipe away the blood with a napkin. Hoodie held his hands up, trying to protect his face from the next incoming kick.
Crowe shoved Fade 2 onto the chair and Fade sprawled under the collapsed wood of the chair.
“€30, lads,” said Crowe.
Ratty’s face was a ripple of calculations. He slid into his back pocket whatever he had been holding and fishing around in his skinny jeans, found and threw a €50 onto the table,
“Call it quits?” he said.
His voice was even, unemotional, measured. Crowe’s instinct was right; he was looking at the puppet master.
Mel pulled up outside in her Hyundai, spied what was going on and barged through the front door.
“There’s CC TV here. We will take your images and send them around every café in the area. Every café, every bar, every Garda station and post them up on our FB page and Instagram,” she said.
The three pups hobbled out. The two diners continued as if nothing had happened and Crowe went looking for the bucket and mop.
“That chair is coming out of your tips,” said Mel.
Crowe strode past her without a word.
He found Thea in the kitchen. Lauren was holding her, rocking her. She glanced at Crowe with something close to grudging respect.
“She ok?” asked Crowe.
Lauren nodded.
“Don’t post that up, Lauren” he said as he hauled out the mop and bucket, “I don’t need the extra publicity,”
“Didn’t see a thing, Crowe,”
“Thanks,” said Crowe.
“Crowe?” said Lauren.
“Yeah?”
“That was fucking deadly.”
“Let’s hope they don’t come back,” said Crowe.
He mopped up the mess and swept up the glass. He glowered at the couple when one remarked,
“I blame the parents. Pushing that poor girl. She should be at home. That mother Grace is always pushing her. They make me uncomfortable, those type. They call them special ones these days.”
The woman who uttered it stirred her tea imperiously. Her companion, the man said nothing. They were well scrubbed retirees emanating smugness. Crowe adjusted his bulk toward them and farted long and slowly.
“Here’s my special one,” he muttered.
His emission did the trick.
“Well done,” said Mel dashing for the door, “You’ve managed to drive out every bloody customer,” she fanned the door back and forth trying to expel Crowe’s waft.
“You can take it out of my tips, Mel.” he replied.
“You’re fired, Crowe. I can’t have you whaling in on my customers.”
Mel’s swings were getting more vigorous,
“Christ, Crowe what did you eat?”
“I was quitting anyway, Mel,” replied Crowe over his shoulder as he skulked back to the kitchen. Down past Pavel and past Maciej kneading a great block of dough. Past Lauren who shook his hand, past Lucy who managed the briefest of nods, her big arms folded. Crowe stopped at Thea. He held her close to his bulk and whispered,
“Don’t worry, be happy,”
And then out into the darkened alley where he unfastened his greasy, bloodied apron and dumped it in the bin.
The alley cut out onto the seafront. A modified Honda with stripes and a spoiler ripped up the road unevenly. Crowe could make out the bloodied faces of the trio as it passed, all grinding gears and vibrating exhausts.
Never a guard around when you need one, he thought.
As he trudged up the street, some sixth sense told him that there would be something for him in the post box. Some umbilical tendril to the BIG MACHINE was still hard-wired into his psyche like an infection. The BIG MACHINE never accepted failure or rather failure it couldn’t hide, deny, cover up or redirect to some far-flung rural station. Remembering what happened the day before, Crowe had looped the apartment key through an old shoelace. A makeshift key ring. He wouldn’t be startling the Polish family on the floor below today.
Crowe had forgotten the apartment number. His inner peace was unbalanced, and his gut was in turmoil. He ran a bloodied finger down the lines of names on the letterboxes until he guessed the one without a name was his. Opening it, he pulled the official brown envelope out with his old work address crossed out. He sensed it had boomeranged around Dublin before reaching him judging by the biro, and he was mildly insulted not to have had a courier hand it to him for sign off.
He took a breath and opened it.
It was a temporary domestic violence restraining order from Alison; reason: unwelcome and unwarranted text messages from a phone other than his registered on their pay plan. ‘causing considerable distress.’
Crowe didn’t remember slamming the postal box or punching it repeatedly until a voice in the corridor above told him in Easter European English to “Shut’d-d’fhuck Up!”
Crowe kept slamming anyway.
10
“Who are you, Pius John Crowe?”
The long sweeping stretch of beach was five minutes’ walk from his garret. The dawn was reaching farther back into the night and every morning come what may, Crowe’s walks allowed him to switch off his misfiring mind before his shift. Only he’d been fired yesterday. He felt bad about leaving Thea, he had enjoyed her uncomplicated companionship during their breaks. He was fearful she would change, become hard and bitter like Lauren or completely indifferent like Lucy. He fretted she’d walk by without acknowledging him. Crowe realised he was utterly alone.
Quigley had stopped responding – the last text from him said simply: SICK.
Doors were suddenly closing on him. The lifeboats were taking on water.
Inishcarrig loomed across the bay. Sheer cliffs on one side spewed plumes of white back into the sea. Crowe kicked off his running shoes and stuffed his socks into them. Tying the laces together, he draped the runners around his neck. He sank his toes into the cold ebb tide, allowing the sand ooze in between his toes. Shutting his eyes, he let out a roar, a howl of pent-up fury. It came from deep within him. The wind snatched the cry and hurled it around the deserted beach. He screamed and roared at the top of his lungs until he was coughing up phlegm. He vomited up his latest hangover and wiped his beard with the sleeve of his fleece. He cupped some seawater and sloshed it around his gums. He spat it out and savoured the aeons old taste of salt.
A sudden shredding of the sky made him look up. A helicopter clattered across the bay from the mainland toward Inishcarrig. He stopped and lit a cigarette watching it. Banking sharply, it disappeared behind the Martello tower. It rose briefly with a slow 180 degree turn and settled just out of sight. Crowe paused. He lit his next from the butt of the last and let the smoke drift about him. Maybe it was the streamlined power of the machine or its anti-social arrival, that started a small, distant early warning system somewhere amid his synapses. The engine dying down echoed across the channel; a pulsing whu-whump-whu-whump wheeze.
Checking his phone, the time read 5:55am.
Crowe pulled on his socks and shoes and started walking along the beach. Coming to the bend of the sand that led to the estuary, he saw a yellow kayak powered by someone in a very orange helmet. With strong sweeps, they pulled through the tide and disappeared from view. A sudden increase in engine noise made Crowe look over his shoulder. The helicopter rose from the island, began a lazy sweep around it and then with a powerful scream it clattered off towards the mainland like a sleek hornet.
It had been on the island for nearly an hour. Maybe it was the elusive Canadian Billionaire, Norcott arriving incognito, but to coin a phrase from Quigley; it didn’t “pass the smell test”.
One person might know.
Derry Gallagher.
***
If Gallagher was holding a busted flush, he was doing his very best to bluff with smooth casino cool,
“If a helicopter landed there, I’d have got the heads-up, John. I’m in the loop on that.” he said. “I’ve ensured Mr. Norcott has my contact details,”
To emphasise, he nodded to his highly polished, though inactive desk phone. If anything, it underlined his disappointment.
“Hardly a FOR SALE sign on the island now, is there? Just saying what I saw,” said Crowe.
He looked at the calendar over Gallagher’s shoulder. It was the last week of April.
May, June, July.
“I’d like to extend the lease. I’ll pay cash. Right now. Covers me ‘till end of August?” said Crowe.
“That would certainly do it.” Gallagher grinned,
“Take it out of the money belt,” said Crowe.
“Are you okay, John? You look a little off,”
“Never better, Derry. So, this helicopter; any ideas?” asked Crowe.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” said Gallagher.
“Is this Norcott the sort of guy who lands unannounced?” said Crowe.
He wondered when the elusive Hilary showed up for work. Her desk was studiously clean and deserted.
“Definitely landed?” asked Gallagher over the rim of his glasses, “Not Air-Sea Rescue? Big red and white helicopter? Sometimes they do practice exercises, taking off, circling, and landing,”
“It was a small black one. I wasn’t paying that much attention. Saw it take off and go around Inishcarrig once. I took a photo,”
Crowe showed Gallagher the image on his phone.
“Not Air/Sea Rescue, though it’s very blurry,” agreed Gallagher.
“And you knew nothing about it?”
Gallagher stared at Crowe’s phone like a husband shown proof of his wife’s infidelity by a PI.
“No,” he said.
“I’d worry about that if I were you.”
Gallagher seemed temporarily lost. Crowe wanted to press, but where does duty, such as it was, end, and recuperation begin?
“I’ll leave the bedding out Friday?” he said
“Yes, yes… of course, John. Of course,” replied Gallagher.
Crowe spied the coffee machine and crushed out a double lungo. He took a cup with him,
