It was getting on for 3.30 p.m. when I arrived at Blackrock Avenue in the ridiculously named Eden development. Celtic Tiger developments tended to have grandiose names – names that looked good on brochures, names that gave you the impression that you were buying above your station.
I brought my gun with me. I was done messing around. I wanted answers and I wanted them quick; and there’s no answer accelerator like the nozzle of a pistol in someone’s face.
Crowley’s apartment was on the ground floor of one of the duplexes at the end of a terrace. The orange bricks of the frontage were only a supporting act to the exposed wooden frame around a floor-to-ceiling living room window. I didn’t see anyone in the living room. I parked four spaces down. I put on my puffer jacket and slid the gun into my right pocket.
I had waited for a moment like this for days. I had fantasized about it, played out the many ways things might go down. I put my right hand in my jacket pocket and clasped the cold steel of the pistol. My father had warned me off guns, said they were more likely to get you killed than offer protection. But now I was the perpetrator; I was the one taking the initiative.
I walked to the door. I paused for a moment to compose myself. I stood to the side of the little head-height window on the door. Breath in and out, like the CD said.
I knocked on the door with my left hand, kept my right on the gun. Safety off, bullet in the chamber, nine more in the clip.
Just breath in and out. In and out.
The door opened. A woman. Early thirties, dark hair with blonde highlights – expensive looking hairdo. No make-up, spots of flour on an old T-shirt and flour paste stuck to her hands.
I must have worn a dozen different faces all at once. She looked at me with the look of a girl who got Thomas the Tank Engine for Christmas instead of My Little Pony.
A woman. That wasn’t in any of my mental rehearsals. I could come back later. But I thought again. I had to do this now. I was done waiting.
“I’m a friend of Barney’s,” I said.
She looked sceptical.
“From the brigade, back in the day. Jerry’s my name.”
“OK?”
In other words, get to the point before I slam the door in your face!
“I wanted to talk to Barney about a mutual friend who passed away. A comrade from Collins Barracks.”
“OK?”
“I want to talk to him about honouring our fallen brother.”
“Look, Jerry. Barney will be back after six. You can call back then.”
I felt desperate then. She’d describe me to him. Give him the name Jerry – quite possible there was no Jerry in his regiment or group. He’d put two and two together and get Bosco. I’d arrive with a pistol and he’d trump it with a submachine gun.
“If I could just wait inside –”
“Please call back later. After six.”
She closed the door. On my foot. I pushed the door open and forced my way in.
“What are you doing?” she shouted. “I’m going to call the Guards.”
I took the gun out of my pocket and pointed it at her. I was thrilled and appalled in equal measure. I gestured towards the living room with the gun.
“Draw the curtains,” I said. “Then turn on the light.”
She complied. The look of terror on her face made me feel like my head was going to cave in on itself. She was probably a nobody, clueless about Crowley’s shenanigans. I had to remind myself that this was necessary. I’d not scare her any more than I needed to.
“I’ve got some money,” she said. She pointed to a PlayStation under the TV. “You can take that. There’s jewellery too.” She started sobbing. “Just take what you need and go.”
“Sit down,” I said, using the gun like a laser pointer to indicate the couch. I had to remind her when she didn’t move. She sat.
“I’m not here to rob you,” I said. “Like I said … I just want to talk to Barney.”
I sat opposite on an armchair. The decor was modern. Clean lines – furniture that was angular, boxy. A chrome TV stand. Seven or eight speakers around the room that looked like they would create an exquisite soundscape.
“What’s your name?” I said.
“Ju – Justine.”
“Good. You see how easy this can be?”
She didn’t relax in the slightest.
“Girlfriend?”
She nodded.
“Good.”
There was a glass coffee table between us. I nodded towards it.
“Pick up the remote. Turn on the TV.”
Her hands shook. She grabbed the remote control and it clinked on the glass a couple of times. She hit the red power button.
The TV was at least a fifty-incher. Along with the rest of the furniture and fittings, it suggested no shortage of income. A regular army guy could hope to earn about five-hundred a week. Now it looked like he was earning at least five-hundred a day.
“Put something on that you like,” I said.
She raised her hands up a bit like someone balancing two saucers. It told me she couldn’t decide. Probably her brain had seized from the fear.
I wasn’t liking this one bit. I used to be a guardian of peace, for fuck’s sake. But if there was one thing that was going to make Crowley talk, it was the sight of a desperate man with a gun to his woman’s head.
“Sky News, then,” I said. “We’ll see what’s going on in the world.”
The channel changed and a flood in Indonesia was the main story. Countless displaced people for whom we had a surface sympathy, but not any deep feeling. I didn’t speak to her again until Crowley arrived home at what the Sky News graphic said was six-thirteen.
I stood in the hall when the key turned. I had the gun pointed at Justine in the living room. The door opened and Crowley walked in holding shopping bags in both hands. I turned the gun to him.
“Hello, Crowley,” I said. “Justine and I have been waiting patiently. Do join us in the sitting room.”
I waved the gun sideways to usher Crowley into the living room and I asked him to sit next to Justine, which he did. He held Justine’s hand.
“No touching,” I said. “Move to the opposite ends of the couch, please.”
Please? Was I going to be graded by anyone on my manners? No, but I was a civilized man. A civilized man who was terrorizing an innocent – most likely – girl.
“What do you want?” Crowley said. There were nerves in his voice, but he remained steady. I doubted very much that this was the first time he’d had a live gun pointed at him. While his physique wasn’t as imposing as Hognatt’s, being no more than five-nine in height, he was stocky. He looked boyish, much younger than the mid-forties he must have been, and had tightly-cut strawberry blond hair.
“I just want to talk. You know who I am, right?”
Justine turned her head to look at Crowley. Her eyes had narrowed somewhat, suggesting that if he affirmed, there would be trouble in paradise.
Crowley’s expression didn’t change.
“I have no idea –”
“Churchfield,” I intervened. “Druid.”
“I still don’t –”
I became very angry then. I remembered the knock to the head. I remembered how it had kickstarted a chain of events – beatings, a shooting, the humiliation in the Bridewell.
“I know about Hognatt. I know about Angola. I know about the red-haired man last night.”
Crowley said nothing. He looked like he was strategizing. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to give him time to work on any angles. I stood up and approached him. I pointed the gun at his head.
“Speak now or forever rest in peace. I won’t hesitate, Crowley. You better believe it.”
“Look, yes, I’ll admit I’ve seen you before. But I don’t know shit, man. Hognatt gives the order, we carry out the mission. I don’t know who Hognatt is taking his orders from. All I know is that whoever it is pays handsomely.”
Something inside me changed at
that very moment. I’d been two, maybe three steps behind from day one. Now I felt like I was at least even, maybe a step ahead for once.
“Churchfield?”
It seemed like Crowley couldn’t get the words out of his mouth fast enough.
“Hognatt said he’d checked out Druid, that there’d just be you there on patrol. He said it would be easy, man. A standard in and out job. We’d suppress you, load the TVs into the van. Simple.”
“What did you do with the TVs?”
“We took them to some barn in the ass end of nowhere. We just left them and went. Burnt out the van a few miles later, changed to a new van.”
“The black Ford Transit?”
He nodded.
“Those TVs are worth about fifteen K. How much did you get paid?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
I inched half a step forward.
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
“You got ten K for yourself? That was your cut?”
Again, he just nodded. I knew there was more to the job than just TVs. That was confirmed now.
“Last night. The red-haired poker player.”
“Hognatt said it was a bag and grab. He’d give us the go and we’d grab the guy and stuff him in the van.”
“Did you interrogate him in the van?”
“No. The orders were to keep him quiet. When we got to the pier, Hognatt took him to the edge. He told us to get back into the van. I thought the guy was toast. A dump job in the river. But Hognatt just let him go.”
“Did you hear what he said to this guy?”
“No, man. I didn’t hear jack shit with the engine running.”
I put my finger over the trigger. “Jack shit?”
“Jesus, man. I swear on my mother’s grave. I’m just in this for the money … to … to pay for the mortgage on this place. To have a good life for myself and Justine.”
“Your mother’s alive,” I said.
“Hey, man, it’s just an expression. I’m telling you. I just take orders, get my payoff at the end of the op.”
“You better be telling me the truth or you very well might be swearing on your mother’s grave.”
“The truth, man. I swear it’s all the truth.”
Justine looked at him with her mouth open.
“Still want to call the Guards, Justine?”
She looked right at me, her eyes wide open like she’d seen a … no, much worse than a ghost. Ghosts don’t carry guns. She shook her head. Smart girl.
“Tell me more about Hognatt.”
“We joined at the same time. Went through training together. We had each other’s backs. You know what I mean, man?”
I did. It had been like that with Cotter.
“Go on,” I said.
“The army pays shit, man. We said when we retired that we’d travel a bit, earn some money. I mean, there’s always some big company in the third world that needs to keep the natives under control.”
“So you joined a private military company?”
He nodded.
“And Angola was the last assignment?”
Again, he nodded.
“How did you end up back home?”
“Hognatt said he knew a guy. Said he paid well. Not as much as Angola, but it was a chance to go home for a while. He said he had to deal direct, that the guy didn’t like too many people knowing his business. So like I said, Hognatt gets the orders, passes them on to us.”
“Us?”
He looked at Justine, then at me.
“Look, man, you knew about Hognatt. I’m not giving anyone else up.”
Again with the closing of ranks, even with my pistol pointed at him. I understood it. He seemed only to tolerate Hognatt, but when it came to his other comrades, I suspected he might take a beating for them. Not a bullet, though.
I considered ramping up the threat, maybe push the gun against his skull. But I decided I didn’t need anyone else. Crowley could get me to Hognatt. Hognatt would get me to whoever the guy on top was.
“That’s OK,” I said. “I don’t need anyone else. How many are we talking, though.”
“Two others.”
Two plus two equals four. Four, for fuck’s sake. I was just one. How deep was I prepared to go?
“What kind of heat are you packing?”
“MP7s, night vision goggles, flashbangs.”
“ERU issue,” I said, referring to the Emergency Response Unit of the Gardaí. Most people weren’t familiar with their existence, being more familiar with the term SWAT – Special Weapons And Tactics.
“Like I said,” Crowley said, “I don’t ask questions. Hognatt gets the orders, the gear, the transportation.”
“Where’s your weapon now?”
“Hognatt moves them around. When we have a job we gather together and Hognatt brings the guns in a holdall.”
“But you’ve got a gun in the house, right?”
Crowley shook his head.
“I don’t believe you.”
I looked at Justine, her hands still messy from baking. I pointed the gun at her. Her neck lengthened and her head went back slightly.
“Is he telling the truth?” I said to her.
She looked at Crowley. She seemed to be looking for permission.
“I didn’t think so,” I said. “Stop messing with me, Crowley. A guy like you doesn’t not have a gun.”
“OK, OK. I have a gun in a safe in the bedroom.”
“I’m not kidding around here. I’ve been pushed around enough by the likes of you. I won’t hesitate to respond disproportionately. No more games?”
Crowley held his hands up in front of his chest, palms towards me like he was surrendering.
“No more games,” he confirmed.
“You’re going to give me Hognatt,” I said. “Where is he?”
His expression changed to one that reminded me of an illiterate pupil being asked to spell the word acknowledgement.
“I don’t know where he is. We don’t know. He moves around.”
I believed him for once.
“In that case, I want you to arrange a meeting.”
Some of Crowley’s resolve dissipated. I could see worry in his face.
“It doesn’t work like that, man,” he said. “Hognatt contacts us. We don’t even know how to contact him.”
Hognatt was a ghost, it appeared. He blew around on the wind. He was a shadow man.
“We’re in for a long wait, then,” I said. “Do you have any rope?”
Both Crowley and Justine looked at each other, more alarmed than ever. Crowley twitched and I almost pulled the trigger.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” I said.
Crowley eased back into the couch and put his hands into that surrender position again.
“Cool, man. Cool. Look, there’s no need for rope. We have a meet to discuss the next op tomorrow morning. We’re meeting at five sharp. Hognatt will ring at four with the exact location.”
I thought about this for a minute. It was nearly seven. 4 a.m. was nine hours away.
“No, I’m afraid we still need the rope. Guy like you is bound to have some.”
I hadn’t come prepared for hostage taking. Once Justine appeared at the door I had to begin improvising.
Crowley told me he had rope under a kitchen counter. I got Crowley and Justine to get up from the couch and walk to the kitchen. I asked Justine to get the rope – Crowley might have tried something stupid.
“Wash your hands,” I said to Justine. No sense in leaving the paste on her hands. She complied.
I looked at a large mixing bowl with flour in it. There was another large bowl on the counter top with a frothy light brown mixture in it.
“Sourdough?”
Justine looked at me, drying her hands with a towel. I might as well have asked if she was making a bomb judging by her expression. She nodded, though.
“I get the Arbutus sourdough myself. I woul
dn’t have the patience to make my own. My mother was always a soda bread woman. She’d knock together a loaf in no time.”
The couple stared blankly at me. I don’t think the idle chat of a man with a gun was something they thought about entertaining.
I made Crowley tie Justine to one of the kitchen chairs. I fixed Crowley to another.
“I’m not a great one for sleep,” I said. “But by all means catch some Zs if you like.”
I pulled a chair into a corner of the kitchen and sat. I rested the gun on a knee. I had time to look around.
“This is a nice place you have,” I said. “Big screen TV, marble counter tops, island unit.”
No thanks from the couple. None to be expected. I was jealous, I have to admit. I still had black and white TV. And that had just become useless since the digital TV service, Saorview, launched. I had an outside toilet when they had an ensuite. Porcelain tiles to my cheap linoleum.
“I can see it needs paying for.”
I got up and searched the cupboards for glasses. I found them and poured water into two of them from the tap.
“Still, though,” I said. “You get the same water as everyone else.”
By this point the couple had a dejected look about them.
“Straws?” I enquired.
Justine nodded towards a drawer. I put the glasses in front of them and put straws in them.
“Can’t say you were mistreated now, can you?” I said.
There was a thought that had been tugging away at me, like the kid tugging at his father’s trouser leg that I often pictured.
“What’s the deal with the machete?”
Crowley tilted his head.
“Up in Churchfield. Hognatt approached me with a machete. Seems … out of step with the clinical nature of your business, don’t you think?”
Crowley straightened his head. He was about to respond when I interrupted.
“It’s Africa, isn’t it? Angola or maybe somewhere before that. Maybe Somalia. They like their machetes there.”
Crowley nodded. “Hognatt said that a gun would frighten someone, but the sight of a machete would make them wish for the gun. A clean death versus being hacked to death, I suppose.”
“Mad Matt,” I said, thinking of the parallel with Mad Mike Hoare from the Jadotville siege.
The Murk Beneath Page 21