‘That’s not what Nap told me.’
‘Well see, I’m not fuckin’ askin’ you what anyone told you, pal, I’m tellin’ you that’s the score or we don’t do it.’
‘OK, OK.’
‘Are y’game ball then?’ he said. ‘Y’can run me back to the borough right now if yer not. ’S’all the same to me.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘All right, yes. Four if you have to use it.’
‘Sound,’ he nodded. We drove on. He turned up the radio.
‘I love this one,’ he said.
In a dreary British prison, where an Irish rebel lay,
At his side a priest was standing, as his soul did pass away;
Tell me this, oh gentle father, so that I may understand,
Tell me this, before your blessing,
Shall my soul pass through Ireland?
At this point he seemed to be overcome by emotion. Perhaps it was the song, I don’t know. In any case, he put his head in his hands and made some kind of strange snorting noise. He did this a few times, his stertorous porcine grunts filling the car. I remember wondering if I should offer him a handkerchief or, at the very least, my sleeve. He drummed his fingers on the dashboard. After a few minutes he sighed.
‘Listen, about what I said earlier, don’t be shittin’ bricks. I’ve done this before. Only gobshites take a chance, is what I’m sayin’. That’s why I’ve the heater with me.’
I felt droplets of sweat on my forehead. ‘OK, OK. I understand. Thanks.’
‘Are y’all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
He put his hand on my thigh and squeezed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’ll all be over soon.’
’Twas for loving dear old Ireland
I am now condemned to die.
’Twas for loving dear old Ireland
In this foreign land I lie.
We got to Quinsboro Road and swung down left in the direction of the sea. Right turn along the front, then another right, one more and a left and suddenly we were there in the small quiet cul-de-sac. I pointed out the house, then drove slowly past, did a U-turn, came back down and parked. He scanned the scene, swivelling, peering, nodding to himself. ‘OK,’ he kept saying. ‘OK, OK.’ We got out of the car. A television was on in Quinn’s house, I could hear canned laughter and loud applause. Sheehan walked up to the end of the street and looked around a bit more, then he came quickly back down in my direction. Half-way along on my right, just across from the house, there was a little laneway, maybe six feet wide. He disappeared down there for a few minutes, then emerged again and came quickly back to me. He had a cigarette in his enormous mouth.
‘What time d’y’say he comes out?’
‘Between nine and nine-thirty. Always.’
‘And does he know yeh?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, would he know y’to see, like?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
He shrugged. ‘Suppose we’ll have to chance it.’
‘Chance what?’
But he did not seem to be listening to me now. He raised a finger and thumb to his nostrils and exhaled, sharply, several times into his hand. He stared at his palm for a moment, his elongated eyebrow going up and down, then wiped his hand on his jeans and sighed.
‘Here’s what’ll happen,’ he said. ‘We’ll get him down that laneway. There’s a little bit of a field there, an auld dump just, at the back of them houses, it’ll be quieter. When he comes out, you’ll be fixin’ your car some way. Just get his attention for a minute. Because if I just take him from the front or the back he’ll hear me comin’. That’s no use because Christ knows what he might have, a knife or a piece or any bleedin’ thing. So you just get his mind on yeh, just for a second, like. Just two shakes. And then bang. Good-night Vienna, what? We can all go home.’
‘You want me to attract his attention?’
‘Well, I don’t mean send up fuckin’ flares. Just, y’know, take his eye off the ball for a sec.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah, yeah. And listen, did you bring anythin’ for yerself?’
‘like what?’
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘I thought you wanted to get involved yerself. Give him a dig when I get him down. So Nap told me. Did y’bring anythin’?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘So what are y’gonna use then? To give him the dig?’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘Well, I’ve a golf club in the boot.’
‘Give us a dekko at it.’
I opened the boot carefully because I did not want him to see the other stuff in there. I took out the golf club and showed it to him. It was Liam’s from work, a driver, beautiful wood, solid handle. I could not actually remember why it was in my car.
He took it in his hands, leaned over it, made an invisible putt down the cul-de-sac.
‘That’ll do grand,’ he said. ‘I’ll give y’a few good swings at him when he’s down, don’t worry. Put it on the deck under the motor.’
It started to rain but very softly. The rain was actually warm to the touch. We got back into the car for a few minutes. He insisted that we switch on the radio again. When the rain stopped we got out once more. It was five to nine. I went down on my knees by the right front wheel, which is what we had agreed. He slipped across the street and slid well in behind a rusty Hiace van which was sitting up on four concrete blocks. From where I was kneeling I could just about see him shifting his weight from foot to foot. Sometimes he would come out from behind the van and stroll up and down. Most of the time he waited in the shadow, just doing that little dance of his, jumping lightly from side to side and softly humming. After ten minutes my knees were aching. I had to stand up and massage them. He motioned for me to get down again. Another ten minutes, then another. No sign of Quinn.
From time to time people passed up or down the street, walking dogs or just by themselves. I made absolutely sure that they did not get any kind of look at me. The time crawled. I look at my watch, certain that another fifteen minutes had passed, but in fact it was only five. Up in the sky I saw the trace of a jet. I found myself wondering whether it was the one I would be on the next morning. I do not know why I should have thought that, but thinking it was oddly comforting.
Behind the van I could see him getting restless, softly kicking the bricks and scratching at a bit of rust with his fingernail. Another five minutes. No sign. I saw him glaring at his watch. I was sure that he was about to come over and tell me he wanted to call it off. And then, suddenly, at twenty minutes to ten, Quinn’s front door opened.
Yellow light spilled out on to the street. A milk bottle clinked. Somewhere a dog began a repeated two-note bark. Come on out, I thought, come on out to your Uncle Billy. A pause. A scrape of feet. The door clicked closed. Quinn walked slowly down his footpath.
He opened the gate, stepped out with a rucksack on his back. I could see him peering up and down the cul-de-sac. He clocked me kneeling on the ground by the car, then he glanced back at his doorway for a moment. Looked at his watch. Whistled softly. For a moment I thought he was going to turn and go back inside. I found myself hoping that he would.
He didn’t. He turned right and began to stroll down the street in my direction. His boots clicked on the pavement. He trailed his right hand in the hedges of the front gardens. Behind the van I saw Sheehan pulling on thick leather motorbike gloves.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘you don’t know anything about cars?’
He stopped and peered down at me. I slid my hand in under the car to where I could reach the golf club. For a moment I thought I saw a flicker of recognition in his face. But then it vanished. He went to walk on and ignore me.
‘I’m stuck here,’ I laughed. ‘I’m in an awful hurry. My wife is after having a baby down in Cork.’
Again he started to walk. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s a few bob in it for you. I wouldn’t trouble you, honestly, only I’m badly stuc
k.’
Always be closing. Always be closing.
‘I’m sure you’re in a hurry,’ I told him, ‘but I could pay you for your time.’
He sighed and cursed under his breath.
‘What’s up with her anyway?’
The first words he ever spoke to me.
‘I don’t know, she has me bloody tormented. Some fuel thing maybe. She’s surging badly on me when I get her up to third. And then in fourth she’s losing power. She’s not getting enough juice some way.’
‘And what are y’at down there?’
‘The fuel pump’s under here, I think. I was goin’ to have a look what’s the story.’
‘Y’sure the pump’s under there, yeah?’
‘Yeah, I’m after checkin’ the manual. It’s definitely some fuel thing. I can’t even get her up to thirty without her shakin’ all over the place like a mad thing.’
He nodded, pursed his lips, moved a little closer. ‘Shouldn’t be happenin’ in that motor. Sure, that’s a fuckin’ flying machine. You’ve a problem there, right enough.’
He put his rucksack on the roof of the car and got down on the ground. Right in front of me, his head bowed low, he looked under the car. His nose was practically touching the tarmacadam. He was so close to me that I could smell beer on his breath and see the label inside the collar of his shirt. Sheehan stepped out from behind the van. He sprinted across the road with the knuckleduster in one hand and his other first clenched. Quinn turned, seeming to hear the footsteps, swivelled his neck around just as Sheehan got to him.
They stared at each other for a second. Quinn looked up at me. I smiled.
‘Hello,’ I said.
Sheehan pounced, tried to hit him in the face with the lump of metal. Quinn jerked away and the knuckleduster grazed his ear. He tried to get up but Sheehan kneed him in the chest. He went down, expelling the air from his lungs with a harsh gushing sound. He panted hard now, in through his nose, out through his mouth. He reached up and grabbed the handle of the car door. Sheehan peeled his fingers away.
Quinn opened his mouth. ‘Rory?’ he screamed. ‘Fuckin’ Rory? Are you there?’
Sheehan clamped his gloved hand across Quinn’s mouth and pummelled the back of his head. Suddenly they were on the ground beside the car rolling, pucking, squirming desperately in a tangle of limbs. Quinn got the driver’s door open and hit the horn hard. Sheehan dragged him back out and flung him to the ground. He grabbed him around the neck, began dragging him down the laneway and towards the field, Quinn’s hobnailed boots scraping on the concrete, kicking against the pebble-dashed walls. I ran ahead of them. Across the field was a battered doorless coach, spray-painted with IRA graffiti, surrounded by mounds of old tyres and dumped fridges. Sheehan hissed for me to get out of the way. Quinn’s arms flailed, his terrified eyes were bulging. Sheehan kneed him in the ribs a few times, flung him head down into a puddle of muck, sat on his lower back and began to work him over, slowly now, methodically, without emotion, like a man doing a job.
I ran back to the car and got the refuse sacks out of the boot, along with the hammer and hunting knife, the handcuffs, the elastoplast and the two fan belts. I put the hammer and knife in the deep pockets of my anorak, got the club from under the car. Back in the field, Sheehan was still pounding him, hitting efficient punches to the spine and neck, the gun in the grass beside him. Quinn gasped, rolled over, jolting Sheehan to the ground. Sheehan flailed out, punched him in the head, knocked him to the ground, crawled on to him, twisted his arm around his neck, sat him up.
‘Is this the right man?’ he panted.
I nodded.
‘Are y’sure? I thought Nap said his name was Donie Quinn.’
‘It is.’
He shrugged. ‘I must a been thinkin’ of a different Quinn. I thought from what Nap said I’d met him once up in the Joy. The Quinn I knew was in the army until they fucked him out for robbin’. But I don’t think this is him.’
‘It’s him, don’t worry.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think it is. He looks different to me, pal.’
‘It’s him,’ I said.
‘Well go on then,’ he grinned. ‘Say hello properly.’
My hands were so wet that I could hardly hold the club. I swung it, felt it connect with the base of Quinn’s neck. He fell forward on to his face.
‘You bastard,’ I heard myself say. I opened my mouth so wide that it felt as though my lips were tearing at the edges. A sound I had never heard before came out of my mouth. I kicked him, lashed out with the club, brought it down hard in the middle of his back. He put his hands up to protect his head.
‘You bastard,’ I said, ‘I’ll teach you something now.’
‘Me name isn’t Quinn,’ he cried. I hit him again. Several times.
‘Take it easy now, sweat,’ Sheehan said. ‘Don’t go spare altogether on me.’
Quinn rolled over and made for the bushes. In a second Sheehan was on him, elbowing him in the face and pulling hard on his hair until he sank back limp into the muck. His jeans were ripped up one seam to the thigh and he had lost one of his boots. I went for him again with the club.
‘That’s enough,’ Sheehan panted, grabbing my arm. ‘He’s had enough, pal, he’s finished.’
I turned to him, breathless and boiling. ‘Beat it,’ I said. ‘Go on, fuck off out of here.’
I took off my belt and tied it around Quinn’s knees, pulling the strap as tight as I could.
‘Me name is Niall Conroy,’ he gurgled. ‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Find his boot,’ I shouted.
Sheehan’s eyes widened. ‘What are y’doin’ to him?’
From my pocket I grabbed one of the fan belts and twisted it round his ankles. ‘Find his boot I said!’
He began groping around in the grass. I got the cuffs on to Quinn. I pulled out a handkerchief and shoved it hard into his mouth. I ran the elastoplast strip around the lower part of his head a few times, until it looked like the head of a mummy. I took two sacks and put them over him. Then I got out the second fan belt and squeezed it down over his head until it contracted around his neck, just tight enough to hold the sacks over him. He wriggled his torso and moaned. I stood up and hit him in the calf with the club.
Sheehan had found the boot now and was dangling it by its lace.
‘What the fuck are you doin’ to him?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’
Suddenly, he groped at his belt.
‘Me knife,’ he said. ‘I’m after losin’ me Swiss Army knife. It’s got me name on it, pal. We shouldn’t leave it here.’
I ignored him. I turned the club upside down and held it like a spear. I jabbed at Quinn’s back a few times. Sheehan rushed over and hauled me away, trying to lock my arms behind my back.
‘Give over,’ he shouted. ‘That’s enough, I said.’
He gave me a shove that almost sent me to the ground.
‘Since when are you the bloody law, Sheehan?’
I moved towards Quinn again. Sheehan grabbed my wrists and held me hard. I struggled to get out of his grip, but his fingers were like blunt pincers.
‘Leave it, y’fuckin’ spacer. You’ll kill the cunt. Is that what you want?’
Somehow I managed to yank away from him. Heart pounding, I reached into my pocket and took out the wad of bank notes I had prepared. I held it up. I saw him looking at it.
Always be selling. Always be selling.
‘There’s seventeen hundred pound cash there,’ I said. ‘Just leave the gun and I don’t want to see you again. I don’t know you. Never met you. Goodbye.’
His long arms were hanging down by his side. His voice was quiet. ‘You’re a fuckin’ psycho, you are. Y’know that? Y’need help, pal.’
I held out my hand. He sighed and gave me the gun. It felt heavy. He took the roll, snapped off the rubber bands and counted it. He looked at me for a while.
‘That’s not Donie Quinn,’ he said.
&n
bsp; ‘Goodbye, Mr Sheehan.’
‘Listen, man, if that’s Donie Quinn I’m Mother fuckin’ Teresa.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
He turned, shot a glance at Quinn on the ground, shoved the money down the front of his jeans and walked quickly down the laneway. A high-pitched, frightened sound came from Quinn then. It was as if he was trying to scream.
I got out the hammer and the hunting knife and put them on the ground. I found the safety catch on the shotgun and took it off. Shaking and breathless, I pointed the gun at the plastic-wrapped globe of his head. I cocked it. From down on the sea front I could hear the screech of the ghost-train siren. I could not hold the gun in one hand, I was trembling so much. I changed my grip and tried to keep it steady with both hands.
I nudged him with the toe of my boot. ‘I’m going to shoot you now,’ I told him. He made no sound.
‘I’m warning you,’ I said, ‘I’m going to shoot you. Get ready.’
Still he said nothing at all. The siren sound came again, ebbing and receding on the wind. Twenty feet away from me I saw the red eyes of a squat scared fox glaring at me, like the tips of cigarettes.
I put my finger on the trigger. My mouth tasted sour. I thought of what he did to you. I felt the coldness of the metal against my finger as I tried to pull.
I could not do it.
I closed my eyes for a second and saw you lying in your hospital bed, your skin and lips so pale, the plastic tubes running into your thin white arms. I thought my head was going to crack in two. I saw your naked feet.
And still I could not bring myself to do it.
I just couldn’t. No matter how I tried.
I heard a muffled throaty sound coming from inside the sacks. It was the sound of him laughing.
I kicked him hard in the stomach. He rolled over and laughed even louder.
PART II
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday 12 July 1994
194–172
Week 28
14th Week in Ordinary Time
The Salesman Page 20