With a six-week supply of Fidel’s Blend from Coffea Coffee safely ensconced in the paper bag swinging from his right hand, Garth knew he’d made a positive decision in retaking control of his life.
Come Tuesday, he thought, he’d no longer answer to any man. At a bank in the Cayman Islands, sat close to a million dollars ready and waiting to help usher in a new life. And he’d begin his new life with a trip taking him to… Well, his options were limitless.
Garth O’Neal waited to cross at the corner of Franklin and Elizabeth Street and peered up into the grey sky. He could smell the approaching rain. Another Melbourne winter would soon descend, but by then he’d be half a world away. Garth, suddenly, couldn’t recall ever being in such a buoyant mood.
***
Garth O’Neal stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change. I stood well back shielded behind pedestrians. The smug bastard was staring skyward and smiling. I wondered what was running through his devious mind. With any luck, tonight, Dayne would have a plan designed to wipe that smile right off his face.
***
Sean followed Garth O’Neal along Franklin Street. He kept back a discreet ten metres and surveyed the pedestrian traffic. Earlier, he’d spotted the perfect location to make his move. One hundred metres ahead, next to a deserted laneway, stood the opening to an underground parking garage. The dark, narrow entrance barely wide enough for one vehicle. Once ten metres inside the sloping entrance, they would be invisible.
He quickly glanced around; not a solitary pedestrian in sight. Parked vehicles further blocked the garage entrance from prying eyes. Sean withdrew the pistol from his coat pocket and placed it under the folded newspaper, then increased his pace to intercept Garth at the parking garage entrance.
***
Excuse me, do you have a light?
Garth turned to the voice; just a hint of an Irish accent in the request.
Sorry, I don’t…
The short wiry man closed in quickly and bustled Garth into the entrance to a parking garage.
Listen here; I don’t have a light. And stop pushing me!
Garth backed up further into the downward sloping driveway to provide some separation. He wondered, was the man drunk? Am I being mugged? He gazed at the man in disbelief. With his escape blocked, he watched the strange little man throw his newspaper to the ground.
With eyes struggling to adjust to the darkness, Garth couldn’t make out what the man was holding. The realisation came too late. And in a vain attempt to protect himself, raised the shopping bag in front of his chest.
The first shot hit both Garth and the bag of finely roasted beans dead centre dropping him to the ground. The sound of the shot, muffled by the suppressor, no louder than a ripe watermelon falling to the ground from a market stall.
***
Sean quickly closed on the man lying prone on the cold concrete. Blood seeped through his shirt just below and to the left of his heart, coffee beans spread around him like a caffeinated aura. He watched the man’s mouth open and close, like a fish out of water, asking a silent “why?” over and over. His eyes roamed the ceiling of the garage looking for clues Sean knew he’d never find. The second shot entered his skull just above the left eye and extinguished all remaining life.
It took less than 20 seconds for Sean Costello to complete the “hands on” aspect of his assignment. He placed the pistol back in his inside coat pocket, picked up the newspaper and quickly exited the garage. Franklin Street remained still and quiet, the only movement a Holden Caprice making a U-turn 50 metres to his right.
Behind him lay a dead solicitor and a kilo of Fidel’s Blend. The robust Dominican roast’s heady aroma mingling with the smell of cordite and exhaust fumes.
Dublin, Ireland
Sunday, March 27
Stuart Clancy cupped his hands to his mouth and blew some warmth into them. Although packed in like sardines on the viewing stand, mere metres from the six fluted Ionic columns of the General Post Office, it hadn’t taken long for the chill wind to winkle its way through the crowd’s defences and lay siege to his extremities.
Thinking of sieges, he mused, the commemorative service for the Easter Rising of 1916 was going especially well. Tens of thousands of Irish men, women and children flooded the streets to watch the parade from the old Dublin Castle to the General Post Office. And just like Padraig Pearse 100 years previous, at this exact spot, an army officer proudly re-read the very same proclamation declaring Irish independence.
As the final words of the proclamation rang out across O’Connell Street and floated away with the breeze, the diminutive President of the Irish Republic, Michael Higgins, marched solemnly towards the steps of the post office to lay a ceremonial wreath. Stuart stood and pulled his collar up just a little higher around his ears as the minute’s silence for the fallen began, then remained standing with those around him for the playing of the national anthem.
As the last note faded, Stuart offered a few hasty good-byes and quickly made his escape. Having sat freezing in the cold for several hours, he was in no mood for the celebratory handshaking and pats on the back with his fellow Dáil Éireann members.
In fact, he was in no mood to discuss politics. Period.
The prospects for his Sinn Fein party being invited to join a coalition with the caretaker government of Prime Minister, Enda Kenny, remained exceedingly dim. The February election hadn’t produced a clear winner, and now, a month later, Kenny’s Fine Gael party still clamoured for a dance partner to form a majority in the Dáil. Stuart held high hopes his party would’ve won a sufficient number of seats to be their partner, but they’d fallen agonisingly short.
Today, food and whiskey were what he needed, and in short order. Free from the crush of bodies in the stands, Stuart surveyed the nearby options to best meet his needs.
The sharp trill and vibration coming from his breast pocket diverted his attention. Clancy withdrew his mobile phone, hit the talk button and placed it to his ear.
Aye?
I saw you on the television. You looked cold sitting up there.
Who is this?
Don’t you recognise my voice? Or did you not expect me to be alive?
Clancy paused and looked skyward at a scuttling cloud hoping to place the voice of the caller.
Eamonn?
Aye, it is. And we need to talk.
We’re talking now.
Not good enough. It needs to be in person.
The anger in Eamonn’s voice momentarily knocked Clancy off balance.
Okay then. I’ll be tied up with official events the rest of this week…
Make it Wednesday. At the old farmhouse, up by Donegal. I trust you still know where it is.
Clancy paused and stared at the mobile in his hand, his anger building and threatening to boil over.
Listen here, you little gobshite, since when do you give me orders?
Wednesday, if you want to know why. And don’t forget what I know, Mr Clancy.
***
Eamonn cut the connection; his last comment pure overkill, but he couldn’t resist. The image of steam blowing out the ears of Stuart Clancy right at this very moment brought a smile to his face.
The call to Clancy put into action the second step of his two-step plan. He’d taken care of step one earlier in the day. It took the better part of two days for Eamonn to unclutter his mind, analyse his situation and weigh his options. The plan he’d now set in motion unfolded quickly soon after.
He parted the blinds of his second-floor room at the Bloomfield House Hotel and stared out over the parklands towards Lough Ennell. A hardy couple, willing to brave the biting wind, strode along the path leading to the lake. The old Georgian mansion just south of Mullingar would be his home for the next few days. The perfect place, he hoped, to stay under the radar and alive until Wednesday.
Melbourne, Australia
Sunday, March 27
A good long run was just what I needed. The cooler temperature
s turned the 90 minutes spent along the trails beside the river from torture to delight. The heat from an extended summer, unwilling to let go of the reins, finally coughed and spluttered its final death throes and departed Melbourne for another seven months. Then again, this being Melbourne, one last scorcher of a day – just to show all Melburnians who was truly the boss – wasn’t out of the question.
The dire consequences of my situation, espoused by Dayne, seemed more and more of an overreaction as the kilometres ticked over. Yes, it was a crime I’d uncovered, but it wasn’t exactly life and death. I was determined to tell him just that later in the evening when we met. And his plan of “over the top” precautions could be put on hold.
Around the five-kilometre mark, I decided upon the person I felt comfortable sharing our accumulated intelligence. We’d talked briefly after a career presentation he’d delivered to my graduating class at La Trobe University; an old friend of my great-Uncle Bert, and high up in the Victoria Police Force. I realised, if I couldn’t trust him, then who could I trust? With the information in his extremely competent hands, I could relinquish the burden heaped squarely upon my shoulders and get on with my life.
A flock of rosellas passed overhead, diving and rising on the currents. Changing direction at will, they completed their relocation from one cluster of treetops to another. I, too, changed direction and turned north towards home. The direction to take for my next career choice wasn’t as clear cut. Was it out of the question to dive back in with another bank? Was banking my true passion, or did it lie elsewhere? In my heart I knew the answer, but time and life circumstances were not on my side.
Life circumstances.
I found myself singing along to a Paul Kelly tune on my iPod. The song, Deeper Water, follows a boy from childhood to adulthood and, throughout the journey, dealing with the loss of loved ones. Another song in my library mirroring my life. Did I subconsciously seek out these songs?
After Dad died, my mother tried to explain that it would take time for me to understand life; that death confuses the young. I’d still not gotten any closer to an answer and the very same question was soon to be asked again. I knew the fateful call regarding Mum couldn’t be too far away. But for now, I continued to compartmentalise.
I could only handle one catastrophe at a time.
***
I parked the Beast out front of Dayne’s where the telephone pole sagged ever closer to the road. Perhaps weary from the constant changes in hierarchy out here on the streets, for I noticed Lang Rules brazenly erased and with someone by the name of Benito assuming the throne. I must have missed the press release.
Inside Dayne’s, all was quiet. Not finding him strumming away in the front room or searching for non-existent food in the kitchen, I ambled down the hall to his office bedroom.
G’ day, Dayne. What are you reading there?
Dayne turned from the luminescent glow of the computer terminal. I still hadn’t grown accustomed to his short hair. And I swear, in the near darkness and at just the right angle, it was like looking into a mirror.
Have you seen the news?
No. I’ve been out most of the day. What’s up?
Garth O’Neal.
Is he on the news? That’s funny; I bumped into him today. Well, more he confronted me. The crazy bastard thought I was following him.
Well, it’s not too funny now. He’s dead!
What?
I took two steps closer and began reading over his shoulder.
What happened? I just saw him not five hours ago.
Shot. Twice, at close range. At a parking garage on Franklin Street down by the Vic Market.
My mouth hung open as I backed up and abruptly sat on the end of the bed.
That’s where he confronted me. It must have happened minutes later.
Implications and scenarios ran rampant, the only thing I could spit out was:
Who?… What?… Why?
Obviously, I knew the where.
NOW, are you going to start taking me seriously? I’ve been telling you the people involved are not to be fucked with.
I shook my head in acknowledgement, still unable to put a coherent sentence together.
Okay, mate. Let’s get our shit together. I talked again with my buddies, and they’re pursuing some leads on their end. Nothing more can be done for the time being. And I’ve also taken care of a few loose ends here…
He waved his hand in the general direction of his computer.
… Covered my tracks, made a few changes to help us down the line. Nothing for you to worry about.
I’d no idea what he was talking about. But I picked up on the one statement that was self-affirming, “Nothing for you to worry about,” and felt a little better.
Now, did you do as I asked?
I withdrew the envelope from my pocket and handed it over.
Dayne searched through the small packet of information and appeared satisfied; until he noticed the business card.
Holy shit, you know the chief commissioner?
Kind of, he’s an old friend of the family. But I think he’s just a deputy chief or something.
Shit, mate! You don’t get out much, do you? He’s been running the whole show for the past three months. Are you sure he can be trusted?
I’m sure. He’s solid. I’d bet my life on it.
I threw out the term as an afterthought, then suddenly realised my life did depend on this.
Okay, here’s what I need you to do.
Dayne gave up his seat before the keyboard. I sat down and followed his instructions. As I typed, all illusions this nightmare would just “go away” disappeared like the childish dream it was. This was real, and my life was changing forever right before my very eyes. I no longer thought Dayne’s plans as over-the-top, a vision of Garth O’Neal lying dead in a parking garage made it all too real.
I hope you didn’t leave anything at work you’ll miss because you can’t ever go back. And you’re going to have to stay out of sight, at least for a few more days, possibly until Friday.
No, there’s nothing there.
It was true. In fact, as I took a step back and studied the matter more circumspectly, I’m not sure there was any one item in my entire life I’d actually miss.
After our home sold at auction, I kept the bare essentials for my unit; the remainder sold through an estate sale. Realising later how little others valued our possessions was truly depressing. What didn’t sell I donated to charity. Since that day, my life has remained in a holding pattern, circling high above reality awaiting further instructions. A flashing warning light now told me I was low on fuel.
I snapped back to the present.
Friday? Why until Friday?
Because, Craiggo, it’s not safe being visible. They’re trying to cover their tracks. They’ve already tracked down Garth and it’s either you or Eric Mullane who’s next on the list. We can’t take that chance. You’ve got to lie low until I tell you it’s safe.
Dayne ran his hands through his hair and scratched his scalp.
Shit, I need a beer. Want one?
Sure…
Just then my phone lit up. I noticed from the caller I.D. it was Judy.
… I’ll be right there. Let me get this first.
And thinking she’d heard the news about Garth O’Neal:
G’day, love. Are you calling about the story on the news?
No, umm… Craig. What story? Wait. Never mind.
The news! Garth O’Neal he’s…
Craig. Stop! Listen.
But he’s been…
Craig, listen to me. It’s your mother, she’s had another stroke. You need to get here in a hurry. Craig… they’ve also called Father Kelly.
I’m not sure what, if anything, I said to Judy before dropping the phone. I slumped against the doorframe and stared blankly at a Josh Pyke concert poster tacked to the wall.
***
My next coherent memory was of sitting in a small room holding a c
up of steaming coffee.
Dayne was on my left, he must have driven, and Judy to my right. She’d draped one arm over my shoulders; her right hand rested on my knee.
The room stood empty but for the three hard plastic chairs we occupied, a coffee table in the centre and a darkened television hanging from the wall. The walls, painted a sickly cream colour were bare. In the door at eye level; a small pane of glass. It reminded me of a prison cell, the window an enlarged Judas hole to check on the inmates.
We arrived too late. The nurses already packing up and removing my mother’s life-sustaining equipment from the room when I burst through the door. With moves borne from experience, they went about their work silently and methodically without ever meeting my eye. The breathing apparatus stood silent, the hooks on the intravenous drip stand empty.
Mother lay there, finally, at peace.
I kissed her cheek, squeezed her hand one last time, then turned and left the room. Her mortal remains may have lain there but they were a mere shadow of the Mother I would always remember and love.
Turn A Blind Eye Page 25