The Going Rate

by John Brady

  Cully took a deep breath and tugged at his jacket. Fanning felt the chill now. And his face and eyes were getting the feeling he remembered from when being a child with that fainting thing. There was something pasty and sour at the back of his throat. The lights of the car swelled and receded. It seemed that Cully was speaking from a long way away.

  “You’re going to pass out,” he heard Cully say from a long way away.

  He did not want to look again at the strange wetness around the man’s head. It gave off a dull gleam that was different from the rain.

  “I’ve got to go home,” he said.

  Said it? Or thought it?

  He was aware of moving, of awkward steps, and the sound of soles scuffing and scraping under him.

  “Come back,” he heard Cully shout. “Don’t be stupid, get back here! I’ll drive you.”

  No: he was jogging now, and it was effortless and smooth. He heard Cully shouting again, and the sound of tires and revving.

  But how fast he could run, and how easily. He turned onto the quays. Traffic, sounds, and even a few people. He stopped and looked back for headlights coming around after him. Everything was still amplified, sharp, engrossing. A flurry of footsteps erupted nearby, and he pressed into a doorway. The racket was two girls half-running and half-staggering, their heels dragging and clattering on the roadway, their boyfriends pulling on their arms, coaxing them on.

  The normality of it flooded him with relief.

  He waited a few moments, and then made his way toward the lights and crowds of the city centre.

  Chapter 41

  FOR A MOMENT, Fanning didn’t know if he was still in the dream. It was he himself who had shouted.

  “God almighty!”

  That was Bríd’s voice.

  “What was that? Was it you, Dermot?”

  He couldn’t straighten up. He was stiff everywhere. He heard Bríd’s slippers sliding on the floor.

  “Jesus,” she whispered. “That was you yelling?”

  “Sorry.”

  His arm was asleep. The chair back had dug into his shoulder and lodged there.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I must have fallen asleep. I got home late – don’t. No, no light. Please.”

  She stood in front of him, waiting. He began to rub at his face.

  “You’re in a fierce state. Did you go overboard on the drink?”

  The reproach and suspicion in her voice didn’t bother him now.

  “I’m just exhausted. I got home, sat down for a think, and…”

  “Well there’s a can of something there by the side of your chair.”

  He raised his back slowly from the chair.

  “Beer,” he said. “Right. I didn’t even get to it then.”

  “And your phone,” she said, stooping. She picked it up with two fingers and held it out. “It’s soaked.”

  “It’ll be okay in the morning.”

  He knew she was holding back questions. The pins and needles were like fire down his arm.

  “There’s a smell of something. Petrol. Do you smell it?”

  “Right, yes. Well, I helped a fella push his car off the road there. Broken down.”

  Her tone changed again.

  “You got soaked, I bet.”

  He shook his head. He was pretty certain now that the knot in his shoulders would morph into a headache.

  “Dermot. Dermot?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m half asleep. That’s all.”

  “But is everything okay? That’s what I mean.”

  “Everything’s okay,” he said. “Yes.”

  “Whyn’t you come to bed when you got home?”

  “Ah, you know.”

  “Do I? I thought I was getting the come-hither earlier on.”

  “I know you need your sleep,” he tried. “I didn’t want to wake you. Was Aisling wandering around in the night?”

  “No. Not yet. If she slept through that, she’ll stay asleep. Jesus, Dermot. I only heard you like that once, remember after the accident?”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  She took a step toward the chest of drawers and leaned against it. He could still feel her battle between annoyance and worry.

  “Did anyone phone?” he asked.

  “What, in the middle of the night, you mean?”

  “After I left.”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  “No-one, actually.”

  “Colm Breen, maybe?”

  “Not funny, Bríd. Not this hour of the night.”

  “Or that Guard you were supposed to talk to?”

  He started in the chair.

  “What Guard?”

  She folded her arms.

  “Oh whatever his name is. How would I remember? You said you were going to get a meeting with him. The research thing. Oh, what’s his name! Molloy? No – Malone. You pointed out his name in the paper last month. Him.”

  He sat back slowly.

  “That never panned out,” he said. “No.”

  He straightened his back, and then arched it as far as it would go, and sat forward in the chair.

  “Jesus, Dermot! Your trousers! What happened?”

  “I know.”

  “They’re wrecked, so they are! And the dirt? My God.”

  The light hurt his eyes.

  “That’s not just muck and dirt, Dermot. Tell me what happened?”

  His throat felt blocked. A sharp pain ran down the middle of his chest.

  “Stupid stuff,” he managed to say. “I was out in some fields. Barbed wire. Dark of course, and didn’t see it. Stupid. Embarrassing.”

  She knelt by his leg.

  “Don’t mind embarrassing,” she said, her voice now thick with concern. “Think tetanus.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “Well what the hell were you doing out in some field in the middle of the night, and it pouring rain, do you mind me asking?”

  “You don’t have to believe me,” he said. “It’s okay.”

  “Oh don’t try that on me,” she said. “Let me see it, you have a cut there.”

  He drew back in the chair.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said evenly. “It’s okay. Thanks.”

  She looked up sharply.

  “How could it be okay? It’s more than a scrape. What on earth were you at?”

  “Nothing, Bríd. Nothing.”

  Her expression was all too familiar to him now, coming from a place between exasperation and fright.

  “If I wasn’t so knackered coming home, I’d have changed, and you wouldn’t be giving me the third degree. I didn’t plan to fall asleep, did I?”

  “Can’t you accept that I am worried? What’s so hard about that?”

  He was almost glad that his anger had made him alert now.

  “Bríd. For the love of… Give over a minute, will you? We’re adults, okay?”

  “What does that mean? Or should I ask?”

  “It means you know the score. I know the score. When did you start to be my mother, or something?”

  “Christ, that’s rich. Your mother?”

  “Remember? Remember what we were?”

  “You’re still drunk. Or something.”

  He grasped her forearm, and began to massage it.

  “Remember what we said, what we swore to one another? How we wouldn’t end up like, well, my parents? The whole married thing? We’ll live the way we want, not in some prison full of clichés and stupid habits and all that?”

  “Dermot. Listen. This is basic.”

  “That’s what I’m saying! We don’t give up who we are. We do our thing– you do yours, I do mine. We don’t, you know, do surveillance on one another.”

  “This is beginning to sound like ‘open marriage’ stuff, and you know what I think about that. I’m half-expecting to hear ‘bourgeois’ next. Or ‘repressive’ or the like.”

  “
Really,” he said, and he felt his mood lurch abruptly. Something stung his eyes. He remembered the humiliations of childhood, the sharp resentments that so easily went to tears.

  “It’s fine and well to talk about it,” Bríd murmured.

  “But come on – things change.”

  “I know,” he hissed. “I know, love! If anyone knows, I do. Trust me, okay?”

  She looked down to where he had stopped massaging. When she spoke again, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Jesus, Dermot, I mean…”

  She was close to tears herself, he saw.

  “Jesus Dermot what?”

  “I can’t believe,” she began, pausing to catch a breath. “I can’t believe we’re sitting here this hour of the night – of the morning.”

  She looked up at him. He saw the trouble he had caused. He coaxed her toward him and he drew back strands of her hair from in front of her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Really. We’re fine. We are.”

  The nape of her neck was sweaty.

  “You’re programmed to worry,” he said to her. “You have to stop sometime.”

  “You’ve got so much, Dermot,” she said, and snuggled in tighter. “So much already.”

  He said nothing.

  “But you can’t be doing this,” she went on, with a soft urgency. “It’s dangerous.”

  She paused, and he sensed she was going to lay a big one on him now.

  “Dermot? You’re thirty-eight. It matters.”

  Before he could say anything, she wiggled and began in a stronger voice.

  “Listen, love – remember the one you were going to do, the children of The Rising? 1916?”

  He nodded.

  “That would be so good,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking about it more and more. So good. Anyone I talk to thinks it’s brilliant.”

  He winced. By anyone, she meant fellow teachers. The kiss of death.

  “Can you get that going again?” she asked.

  “I suppose,” he said. He was certain that he had told her there was zero money for children’s film. Zero.

  “And you could leave this crime thing.”

  He stopped stroking her neck. She turned to him.

  “Dermot?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “I hate to see you frustrated, love. I just hate it.

  All that talent, running up against a brick wall. But this crime thing, it can’t be good. I mean…?”

  Her words trailed off. She rested against him again.

  “I’m not trying to upset you,” she said then. “I swear. There’s no-one like you, no-one in Dublin – in Ireland – no-one who knows things like you do. The gifts you have. The insight.”

  The weariness had come over him in a matter of moments, pressing him deeper into the chair. He felt his thoughts sink too, under some other gravity he knew he couldn’t resist.

  “It’s for someone else now, Dermot. Someone else’s racket, this crime stuff. This gang stuff.”

  “It’s what people want,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s not like you one bit, for God’s sake. Remember, ‘don’t follow the herd’? And all the killing and the drugs, and all, I mean why make it worse?”

  “Make it worse?”

  “You know. Come on. Make it look cool. Gangsta rap.”

  “Dublin,” he said. “Dublin, Bríd.”

  “But Dublin’s gone,” she said. “You said so yourself, how everything’s gone inside out. How it could be anyplace now.”

  She shook him gently once.

  “It’s true, love. Unfortunately.”

  Fanning kept his gaze on the base of the lampshade by the door. This was one of those moments, he knew, but he cared nothing about it. All he knew was that something was coming loose, and that he felt things falling away.

  He heard Bríd say something that included Breen’s name.

  “It’s no trouble,” she said. “I would actually like to talk to him. I mean, he knows me.”

  “What,” said Fanning. “You’re not serious, are you.”

  “Breen?” she retorted. “What’s it to him? If he can’t do it, he knows people who can. It should be no big deal for him to do that.”

  “No,” he said.

  “If you put your foot down with him, he’ll respect that, Dermot.”

  Cully kicking down with his heel, like a grotesque Riverdance move, again and again. The Polish guy unmoving. That scraping sound as his scalp was ground and dragged along the cement of the footpath with each kick. And Cully shifting his stance to stamp again, like he was trying to put out a fire.

  Bríd sat up, turned, looked at him. She reached out awkwardly for his chest.

  “I can hear your heart hammering,” she said. “All the way down to your knees!”

  She inclined her face closer to his, as though to break his gaze on the lamp.

  There was a spike in his throat, swelling fast.

  She grabbed his shoulders.

  “God,” she said. Without looking, he knew there was panic in her face now.

  “Are you going to be sick again?”

  Chapter 42

  MINOGUE LOOKED AT HIS WATCH again, and glanced across at Wall. Even Wall was fading. Downstairs in the station, there was still plenty of activity. He wondered if the place ever grew quiet.

  He sat back, and let his eyes wander up to the clock. Ten minutes off, its hands were almost 180 degrees now: 1:40 a.m.

  “What a night,” Wall murmured, and sat back too, stretching his fingers over the keyboard.

  “Go on, Ciaran. I’ll finish up.”

  “You’re not going to do it all tonight, are you.”

  Minogue closed the folder on copies of the preliminary charges for Twomey and Matthews, and he slid it under the one holding the statements from the girls. Twomey, the more belligerent one, had been crying when they brought him down. Matthews was a horse of a different colour, going off quietly enough, a mixture of resignation and disgust on his face.

  “God no, Ciaran. Excuse me.”

  “Ah don’t worry. Like I say, it’s one way of praying.”

  Minogue was sourly proud of how he held his own against a surge of annoyance at Wall’s condescension.

  He saved his work and closed the database.

  “There’s no proper reason we can’t go to our homes now,” he said to Wall. “As long as we’re let in at this hour, I suppose.”

  Wall smiled.

  “I’d nearly be tempted to wake up those kids of mine,” he said. “When I get in. And tell them – the girls anyway – how lucky they are.”

  Minogue didn’t get it for several moments.

  “Those two young ones,” said Wall, and he shook his head.

  “I’ll bet you a pint neither of them will get a wink of sleep tonight. If that’s any consolation.”

  “No more than the two lads below in the cells, I suppose.”

  Minogue tossed his head lightly in agreement.

  “Tell me though, er, Matt. Are we really going to follow through on the interference bit? With the two lads, I mean?”

  The imp of spite appeared to Minogue. It was not to be denied.

  “The sexual interference, you mean?”

  “Yes. That.”

  “It’s available. But it’s far from straightforward, obviously. You can see that, right?”

  Wall nodded.

  “We’d need to know if those two girls are virgins, for one thing.”

  He was reasonably sure that he had seen Wall try to conceal a squirm.

  “Maybe that’s putting it a bit simplistically though.”

  “Yes,” said Wall, and looked at the clock.

  “I mean to say, this isn’t Saudi Arabia or somewhere, is it?”

  “Saudi Arabia?”

  “I was reading that a judge can order virginity tests there. As easy as anything too.”

  “Isn’t that interesting.”

  “That’
d be only for the women though, I daresay.”

  The imp was banished. Minogue felt tendrils of shame now.

  It was only eight o’clock at night in his son Daithi’s neck of the woods, he remembered. He might as well have a last gawk at email.

  Wall was up now, and clearing things off his desk.

  “Matt, tell me something, will you?”

  It was enough for Minogue to miss a letter in his password. He started again.

  “Fire away.”

  “You don’t really think these are our people, do you?”

  Minogue stopped typing and looked over. Wall had a sympathetic smile.

  “You mean…?”

  “The foursome tonight.”

  “A straight question there. Deserving of a straight answer. But let me ask you first.”

  “Well,” said Wall. “I don’t have half the experience you’d have now. I mean to say, all that background in the Squad…”

  Still the password was wrong. Minogue checked the Caps button, and retyped the password carefully, pausing after each keystroke.

  “You don’t,” said Wall gently. “I can tell.”

  It worked. There was mail. Malone, not Daithi?

  “Do you?”

  Minogue glanced over.

  “I don’t, Ciaran. To be honest.”

  “I thought you didn’t all right. I remember thinking, ‘well he’s going hard as nails on these two lads, but I have the feeling he’s not convinced.’”

  “You were right,” said Minogue.

  He turned back to the screen. Malone never used punctuation. His half-arsed rationale – one that had actually made Kilmartin chuckle for a long time after hearing it – was that it was revenge on his First Class teacher, an old biddy who had it in for him.

  Forget talking to M? Okay, Minogue remembered, rubbing his eyes, that Murph character. He read it again. Sure enough, Malone was telling him that Murph had been positively identified an hour ago. Minogue checked the time of the email: 10:19. A burned-out car. Seems to have been shot first.

  He considered testing Malone’s declaration by trying his mobile, but decided quickly not to. If he knew Malone, this was another episode of a fiercely conscientious copper just slamming the door. It could take a few hours, or even days. Minogue remembered that Malone’s C.O. was understanding. But walk-outs like this were what could surface during the interviews for Sergeant, and Malone knew it.

  “You know, Matt, I actually don’t mind,” said Wall. “I sort of let on.”