The Storm Protocol

by Iain Cosgrove

  I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes again. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a decent night’s rest. Sitting there, feeling the rhythmic clacking of the train on the rails, a metronomic lullaby that would normally send me to sleep, I just couldn’t make the leap from the conscious to the unconscious world.

  Somehow at the last minute, the questions would shake me awake and assault my impending dreams. Sitting on this train on my way home, I knew why.

  It was the spectre of family.

  A small ghostly tendril was reconnecting me to the past; a past I had tried to forget, like it was a dream.

  Of course, I’d never had a family; never married, never even had a serious relationship. How could I? I killed people. Yes, maybe they were low life scum-bags who deserved it, but they were people too. They were sons of mothers.

  I would not have been able to regularise the two lives; would not have been able to cohabit the pleading entreaties of my victims, with the soft, innocent laughter of my children. The two were just incompatible, and yet, the unspoken question was out there.

  The thing was; fatherhood was a mystery to me. I had no frame of reference. My own father had been austere and distant.

  Richard O’Neill had been a man of his time. And he had died before the possibility of a relationship between us had even emerged. So most of what I knew about fatherhood, I’d learned from my mother; possibly not the best seat of learning for a boy to become a man. I thought then about Kathleen; I wondered if she had ever married, and then chided myself for my first thought of her being a jealous one.

  I knew I was torturing myself. I knew no good would come from idle speculation. But then, there were very few good thoughts in my head. Happiness to me was experienced in brief diversions; it wasn't a state of mind.

  An image of Kathleen started to form. Sixteen years old, bouffant hair, shoulder pads and rainbow legwarmers. She was not conventionally pretty; she was not doll-like and petite. She was a big girl; certainly larger than average, but there was an attractiveness about Kathleen. It was something she wore, like an aura or a cloak. Call it vivacity or maybe sexual energy, but something had called to me on that very first night.

  We had gone out together for a couple of years, but Ireland and especially Cork were too economically ruined to support two completely unskilled teenagers. I stuck it out for as long as I could, taking jobs in fast food joints and on building sites, but inevitably, at the end of the month, my expenditure always exceeded my income.

  At the time, there was a lottery for visas to America. It was like having your very own Wonka’s golden ticket; a key to unlock the country where the streets were literally paved with gold, or so they said. There were fifty thousand of these lifelines available, and I became one of the lucky ones.

  When I’d first broached the subject with her, she had been so excited, and it was only halfway through the conversation that I’d realised why. She thought I was talking about both of us going.

  It was one of those conversations where both of you are sharing it, but yet it seems to be going in two different directions; at completely crossed purposes. The further it went, the harder it was for me to steer it back and eventually I just had to tell her out straight.

  We had shared a lot over those months; relationships are about the only things that flourish in adversity. So when I told her that I’d got the green card and that I was going alone, I was prepared for the shrieks, the screams, the anger and the hurt. But I had not been prepared for that look. It was empty and devoid of hope, with a tinge of shock and hurt; like a loyal dog that has just been savagely kicked.

  It had been impossible to retrieve our relationship from the ashes of that conversation. She had tried once to dissuade me, and when that hadn’t worked, she had begged me to take her. I had shaken my head sadly; at that stage of my life, I could barely look after myself, let alone someone else.

  I had half hoped she would be there to wave me off at the docks, but was not surprised when she wasn’t; it was a lifetime ago.

  I felt a shiver run through me, as I remembered the house. That was another ghost I had to confront; another spectre I had to lay to rest. My father had been a successful solicitor; killed in a car accident when I was five. Luckily, he’d had an exceptionally good life insurance policy, as well as a decent pension set aside for my mother.

  We had been forced to move from south to north; from a crumbling but substantial property on Merchants Quay to a much smaller house in a less affluent neighbourhood. Even when I had gone to America, and she had been moved to sheltered accommodation, there was still enough money left from the policy to pay for the nursing home. It had helped to assuage my guilt and it also enabled me to hold onto the house. She posted me a copy of the will that she’d made the day I left, leaving the whole of her estate to me; before the Alzheimer’s took over and she didn’t even know who she was.

  Yes, there were a lot of ghosts to lay to rest.

  With a jolt, I realised we were pulling into Kent station. As I dragged my bag onto the platform, I felt a strange wave of youthfulness wash over me; it was like I was twenty again, which in a sense I was.

  I had never experienced Cork as a mature adult. As I walked out through the doors and onto the Lower Glanmire Road, a wave of memories and nostalgia hit me like a tidal wave. I hadn't expected to feel so reconnected with the place. I thought about who I was, and then forced myself to think about the situation I found myself in. Certainly over the last month, there were a lot of dangerous people out there who wanted me dead; I needed to focus.

  I joined the queue at the taxi rank, surprised at how many people had been on the train. There had certainly been many more than I’d expected.

  I watched as the line slowly dispersed. I wasn't racist; how could I be living in New York, the most cosmopolitan of all cities? When I’d left Cork, you would barely find an Englishman on the streets, let alone a black man, but now every second taxi driver seemed to be coloured. It seemed that Ireland had indeed come a very long way in twenty odd years.

  It was more by luck than judgement that as I came to the head of the queue, I heard a familiar refrain and smiled at the greeting; this one was definitely Irish.

  ‘How we doing, boss?’

  ‘Great thanks, you?’ I replied.

  I could almost feel my own accent flooding back; it had been so long since I’d heard the Cork lilt and if I was truthful with myself, it felt good. I settled myself into the front seat with my small bag stuffed between my legs.

  ‘Where to boss?’ my new friend asked.

  ‘Grattan Hill,’ I said, the words feeling alien in my mouth.

  ‘Sure, you could walk it from here,’ said the taxi driver.

  He noticed the look on my face.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

  The driver pulled out onto the busy road, leaning on the horn and swearing meaningfully out of the open window.

  ‘Jesus, where did this arsehole get his license?’ he asked loudly, gesturing ahead. ‘And look at this fucking guy. You could drive a bus through there, boy!’ he shouted angrily.

  I tried to suppress a smile; it seemed taxi drivers were the same the world over.

  ‘So, what has you in Cork, boy?’ asked the driver, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was at least ten years his senior.

  ‘Just visiting,’ I said.

  ‘From America, is it?’ said the driver.

  He pronounced America funny; the first three syllables, and then a pause before the last one, with his voice rising all the time. To me, it sounded quite comical; to an American, probably less so. In the US, they took their country name very seriously.

  ‘Yes, I got a green card; I was lucky and left during the eighties,’ I replied. ‘This is my first time back in about twenty five years. I even missed my mother’s funeral,’ I continued softly.

  ‘I wouldn’t hang around, if I were you,’ said the taxi driver, either ignori
ng me or not hearing the last remark. ‘This country is fecked. Half the place is living on welfare and the other half is paying for it. On top of that, the Blacks, the Indians, the Chinese and the eastern Europeans are all coming over here. If they don’t work, they’re claiming welfare, and if they do work, they’re pricing all of us decent people out of a job. This country is fecked,’ he said again, as if emphasising it.

  I smiled; yep, definitely the same the world over.

  ‘This is you, boss,’ he said, pointing ahead.

  I’d been paying attention to the driver, not my surroundings. I looked straight ahead and drew a sharp breath inwards. It was as if someone was playing with the zoom on a camera. Everything was blurry and then; wham, suddenly all brought into sharp focus.

  I paid off the driver with a healthy tip.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ he shouted, as he drove off; gratuities were a way of life for me now, legacy of living in New York.

  My hands shook as I tried to get the key in the lock. I could feel my knees knocking. I was just about to turn and push, when I heard a loud clearing of throat to my left. I looked across, suppressing the urge to run. It was Mrs Walsh, my mother’s neighbour. I was not in the mood for small talk; not now anyway.

  I didn't have a mirror, but I didn’t need one. I knew the man standing beside her was unrecognisable from the teenager she used to shout obscenities at.

  ‘Are you from the management company?’ she asked.

  I moved my head noncommittally, hoping it would cover either a positive or a negative response.

  ‘It’s just you’re not the normal guy,’ she said, stating the obvious.

  ‘I’m not from the management company,’ I answered. ‘I’m moving in for a week or so.’

  ‘Oh how nice! It will be lovely having somebody next door again,’ she said. ‘It has been so depressing, living next to an empty house for so long. Don’t get me wrong, he makes sure it is kept lovely, but it’s not the same without someone living in it.’

  She held out her hand.

  ‘Maeve Walsh,’ she said by way of belated introduction. ‘But you can call me Mrs Walsh,’ she added, with an impish grin.

  I had to think for a couple of seconds.

  ‘John O'Reilly,’ I replied in return, ‘but you can call me John.’

  ‘Welcome to Grattan Hill, John,’ said Mrs Walsh.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘But if you don't mind, I’m going to get myself settled inside. It’s been a long journey; a long flight.’

  ‘Off you go, young man, don’t let me keep you,’ she said. ‘Just remember, if you need anything, I’m just next door.’

  I darted inside, maybe a little too quickly. I closed the door and leant back against the cold wood, closing my eyes as I did so. That had been really weird.

  Even though I'd known she wouldn't recognise me, it was still peculiar to talk to my old neighbour like she was a stranger. Even if she could be a poisonous old busy-body sometimes, she had been very good to my mum, especially towards the end of her tenure in the house. I would tell her later who I really was, when the tiredness had abated.

  The house itself was like a time warp. I remembered everything. I'd seen a documentary once, where they re-created rooms for celebrities in their childhood homes. I felt like one of them at that moment; it was uncanny how familiar it felt.

  I threw the keys on the table and sat down heavily, so I didn't fall down. I pulled my iPhone out of my trouser pocket, selected camera mode, and then the camera roll. I flicked through the pictures, till I came to the one I wanted. I'd taken it at an angle to try and block out the bloody and jagged hole in the forehead. I turned the phone on its side and tapped thoughtfully with my forefinger on top of the case.

  ‘Who are you, Mr Mystery Man?’ I asked, in a whisper.

  Chapter 17 – Glimmerings

  13th May 2011 – Three Days after the Storm.

  Two qualities are indispensable: first, an intellect that, even in the darkest hour, retains some glimmerings of the inner light which leads to truth; and second, the courage to follow this faint light wherever it may lead. – Carl Von Clausewitz.

  ‘Hey Dale, get the fuck off my couch!’

  He felt the hands grab his clothes roughly, before he was viciously spun towards the ground. He dropped about a foot and a half, to land with a thud on the hard laminate floor. Dazed and disoriented, he staggered to his feet. A large coffee cup was thrust into his bemused hand.

  ‘Stop fucking sleeping on the job, Foster,’ his boss said. ‘It pisses me off. I have to kick my drunken slob of a student son off the sofa every second morning. I don’t see why I should have to do it at work, too.’

  ‘Sorry sir, it won’t happen again,’ said Dale groggily.

  ‘Anyways; seeing as you are here, go and get a shower, and then hook up with Dodds. I’ll tell him to wait for you; he’s checking out what came in last night.’

  Dale walked slowly back to his desk, ignoring the polite round of applause. As he headed for the showers, he gave them the finger, prompting lots of kissing noises and shouts.

  ‘Bring that over here, baby!’

  He smiled to himself; where would you be without friendly office banter.

  He returned to his desk, refreshed, a few minutes later. It was amazing how something as basic as a stream of cold water on the skin, could affect such dramatic changes.

  ‘Sobered up yet?’ asked Dodds.

  ‘I wasn’t drunk,’ replied Dale defensively.

  ‘What a waste of the boss’s couch,’ said Dodds disgustedly.

  ‘Don't start on me, Dodds, I’m not in the mood,’ snorted Dale shortly.

  ‘Come back to me when your PMT is over,’ said Dodds gruffly.

  ‘Just let it go, Dodds, will you,’ said Dale resignedly.

  ‘Sure, just give me back all those cigarettes you stole from me over the last two years and we’ll call it quits,’ replied Dodds, with a thin smile.

  Dale looked at him, stunned.

  Dodds said nothing more and went back to his files, as if no bad tempered exchange of words had ever happened.

  ‘Are you going to join me or what?’ he asked at last, in exasperation.

  Dale studied him surreptitiously across the desk, as he put away his shower things and draped his towel over the radiator. He had a brief flicker of déjà vu; that feeling that he’d been in this moment before.

  And then he realised it wasn’t déjà vu. Dodds was him, just older, greyer and more alone. It was a depressing thought. His body craved a fix; was screaming for nicotine, but he couldn't feed the craving without giving away his secret, which wasn't a secret anyway, it seemed. What a pointless existence. He really needed to get something into his life, other than work.

  ‘Ok, pass a few of those over here, will you,’ said Dale.

  Their field office was based in Westchester, NY, but as part of the task force they were assigned to, Dale and his team had temporarily moved to the DEA New York divisional headquarters on 10th avenue. They co-operated very heavily with local law enforcement.

  As part of that teamwork and co-operation, Dale had helped broker a deal with the local law agencies. If any cases came in to them that were remotely drug related, they would pass them along to the DEA task force. Dale and Dodds, as the task force liaison officers, would go through all the files that had been flagged to them. If any of the referrals led to further busts, the credit was shared between the DEA and the referring agency. It was a good system and so far it had been working very well. Both Dale and Dodds were special agents, but both preferred to refer to themselves as just agents; special agent tended to get up the backs of their peers and colleagues.

  Dale flicked open the first file and started scanning down. After reading the top couple of lines, he knew this one was a no hoper. He recognised the perpetrator; a lonely delusional man, who had quite literally blown his brains out long ago. Apart from the obvious physical addiction, he had so many mental issues, paranoid schizophrenia, ma
nic depression, you name it. He was the sad and depressing face of the fight they were losing on the streets. Dale cast the file aside, much as the addict had done with his life. They wouldn’t be getting any information from this one.

  He picked up the next file; two students this time, arrested for possession outside a nightclub. It was highly unlikely that they would be able to provide anything of any value. He was just about to pick up a third, when Dodds threw a file across the desk at him.

  ‘Take a look at this one,’ he said. ‘It could be interesting.’

  The arrest was for a violent altercation outside a bar; the officers had been particularly struck by it, as it appeared the originator of the aggression had been a recent victim of violence himself. In a subsequent search, they had found a significant quantity of cocaine; certainly more than was required for personal use.

  ‘Yep, that looks like a good one,’ said Dale. ‘Is there anything else in your pile?’

  ‘Nothing else worth looking at,’ responded Dodds.

  Dale took the remaining four files on his desk and split them in two.

  ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing one half to Dodds. ‘Have a skim through these and then we’ll check this guy out.’

  An hour later, they were heading towards the 5th Precinct headquarters. Dodds generally drove. He’d told Dale once that he was a very nervous passenger. Dale had only experienced it a single time, but didn’t ever want to go through it again. He had never seen terror etched in such precise detail on someone’s face before. He was no great passenger himself, but he’d live; he didn’t think Dodds would survive another journey riding shotgun.

  They drove in silence, but a surprisingly companionable one. Their occasional spats were part of the fabric of working closely together and quickly forgotten.

  Halfway to the station, Dodds flicked a button on the centre console, and the next thing, Tony Bennett was telling them that he had left his heart in San Francisco. Dodds was a sucker for the old crooners. It was still early morning, so the sun was quite low. Dodds pulled the visor down to shield his eyes and slipped on a pair of mirror shades. Dale noticed a picture of a young woman stuffed into the webbing of the sun visor.