A Man With One of Those Faces (The Dublin Trilogy Book 1)

by Caimh McDonnell

  Before him, on the coffee table, sat the album’s cover. While the other three Monkees gurned for the camera, Mike Nesmith’s stoic expression almost pleaded to be taken seriously. Through an extensive trawling of second-hand record stores over the last three years, Paul had managed to find vinyl copies of ten of the eleven studio albums the Monkees had recorded, the one exception being the 1970 release Changes. It was hard to get hold of second-hand, mainly because nobody had bought it first-hand. It had peaked, which is almost certainly the wrong word, at 152 in the US charts and it hadn’t even registered anywhere else. When push had come to shove, though, Headquarters had been the album he’d chosen to save. Forget Desert Island Discs, death knocking on your door will quickly triage your music collection down to the bare essentials. Along with the itchy underpants and two framed pictures, the album that’d spent eleven weeks of the Summer of Love at number 2 in the Billboard charts behind Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band had been his luxury item.

  Brigit entered and sat down on the sofa beside him, a bottle of wine in one hand and a large lunchbox in the other.

  “Get your kit off,” she said.

  “Whoa, whoa there, missy. I don’t know how things work in Leitrim, but up here in the big smoke, you have the bottle of wine before you start making those kind of demands.”

  Brigit looked down at the album cover on the table. “Ah, the Monkees. Now I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You and Dorothy were in the kitchen for quite a while. What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, y’know, girlie stuff, Risk tactics, that kind of thing. Now, come on, off with the jumper. I need to take a look at that shoulder.”

  Paul started slowly pulling off the jumper.

  “Are you sure you’re qualified to do this?”

  “I’m checking your stiches, not performing open heart surgery.”

  Paul threw the jumper down on the armchair beside him and then carefully pulled the yellow t-shirt over his wounded right shoulder.

  Brigit gave him an assessing look.

  “There’s a tiny bit of blood showing on the bandage,” she said.

  Paul pointedly didn’t look down. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” He went to put the t-shirt back on. Brigit slapped his hand away.

  “Don’t be daft, I need to check it. Make sure you’ve not ripped your stiches.”

  Paul’s stomach did a somersault at the mention of ripping.

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah I’m just… not a big fan of blood and all that.”

  “Right. Tell you what. How about you just sit back and close your eyes, and I’ll just have a quick peak?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Or, I could tell you in detail about some of the operations I sat in on during my training? I once saw a gallbladder being removed.”

  Paul stared daggers at Brigit, who smiled sweetly back at him. “Just let me take a look. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  Paul sighed, sat back and closed his eyes. Brigit began to remove the bandages slowly.

  “So,” she said, “big fan of the Monkees then?”

  “Kinda.”

  “I’ve seen them on telly. Is Hey hey we’re the Monkees on this one?”

  “No.”

  “Daydream Believer?”

  “Nope. None of the catchy well known ones are on this album.”

  “Oh, God, you’re not one of them are you?”

  Paul opened his left eye and looked at her.

  “Them?”

  “Y’know, music snobs,” she said, before dropping her voice down an octave, into a passable hipster impression. “Yah, I was like totally into their early demos before they sold out and went all commercial. They’d one track that was just the bass player pooping on a tambourine, it was amazeballs.”

  “No, I’m not one of them,” said Paul, trying to ignore the feeling of fresh air on his shoulder, and the feeling of Brigit’s fingers on his naked skin. “For a start, this album was after the two albums with all the catchy tunes.”

  “Yah, I’m actually a big fan of their post-commercial phase, when they did some really innovative things with bagpipes,” continued Brigit.

  “Are you going to keep being sarcastic?”

  “I’d imagine there is a very high probability of that, yes. This might sting a bit.”

  “I think you’re over-estimating the devastating effect of your – OUCH!”

  The ouch was for whatever Brigit had wiped across his wound. “Ah right, you meant that. Not much of a warning.”

  “Relax, ye big wuss,” she said, “or I’ll tell you about infections you can get from…”

  “OK, OK, OK,” said Paul, leaning back and closing his eyes again.

  “So, why this album then?” Brigit continued.

  “Well, you know how journalists are always talking about the great moments in music history. Dylan going electric, The Beatles performing on the roof at Abbey Road…”

  “Janet Jackson’s boob going solo at the Superbowl.”

  “Exactly. Well you probably heard how The Monkees were the world’s first manufactured band?”

  “Were they?”

  “Yeah, yeah – they were actually put together for the TV show. It worked brilliantly too. In 1967, they out-sold the Beatles and the Rolling Stones combined. Combined, mind you!”

  “Fancy,” said Brigit, without a great deal of sincerity.

  “Then,” continued Paul, “Mike Nesmith, that’s the one in the hat.”

  “I always preferred the drummer.”

  “Everybody preferred the drummer,” said Paul. “But – Nesmith did something truly amazing. He convinced the other three to fire the session musicians and the songwriters. Then they went into the studio and, for their third album, for the first time, they tried to do it themselves. They basically formed a real band out of the fake one they were already in.”

  “And it worked?” said Brigit.

  “Well, kinda,” said Paul. “I mean, there’s nothing on the album as good as Daydream Believer or Last Train to Clarkesville but…”

  “But?”

  “Don’t you get it? They took the lie of what they were and they made it real.”

  “I get it,” said Brigit. “They became proper artists. They reclaimed their souls and went on to critical acclaim…”

  “No, not really. In fact, in the long run – it was a bit of a disaster. The critics still hated them and they weren’t producing the catchy tunes that radio wanted anymore. They even tried to resell their souls pretty soon after, when they realised they’d killed the golden calf.”

  “Goose,” said Brigit, as she began re-bandaging Paul’s shoulder.

  “What?”

  “You can’t kill the golden calf, it was a statue. The golden goose was the one who laid the golden eggs, that’s the one you can kill. Mind you, when you think about it, surely laying golden eggs was doing awful things to that goose’s digestive system.”

  “Whatever,” said Paul. “The point is – this album captures a moment. It’s four guys doing what they can to make what they are really mean something. I guess, I dunno – I just like the idea of that. Does that make sense?”

  Paul opened his eyes and looked at Brigit.

  “Yeah, yeah it does.”

  They held each other’s gaze just a moment too long before both looking away in embarrassment.

  Paul glanced down at the book that was still in his lap.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand...”

  “The continuing popularity of Simply Red?”

  “No, although also – yes,” said Paul. “What I was referring to is – why is somebody trying to kill us?”

  “Ah, the two hundred million Euro question,” said Brigit, as she ripped some tape off a roll, and stuck down the end of the fresh bandage she had just applied. “And you are done. For God sake put some clothes on, your creepy nipples are freaking me out.”


  Paul looked down. “What’s wrong with my nipples?”

  “They’re like the Mona Lisa’s eyes, they follow you across the room.”

  Brigit sat back on the sofa and began applying the corkscrew to the bottle of red wine as Paul redressed himself.

  “I know what you mean though,” said Brigit. “We’ve been so busy running, we’ve not really thought about why. What could McNair have told you that’s so scared this Gerry Fallon fella?”

  Paul left the jumper to one side. In the warmth coming from the fireplace, he didn’t need it. “I keep going over it in my head. He talked a lot about dying.”

  “Hardly surprising,” said Brigit, as she pulled the cork out of the bottle.

  “Phil told me that Gerry Fallon has a son,” continued Paul, as Brigit filled both their wine glasses without asking. “McNair said how I looked a bit like my father and my uncle. I assume he thought I was this Gerry Fallon junior then.”

  “Who,” said Brigit, “he was clearly not happy to see.”

  “I bet he thought they’d kill him if they found him.”

  “Judging by what has happened since, he may’ve got that bang on. Cheers,” said Brigit, raising her glass in an unanswered toast before putting it to her lips.

  “He kept telling me how he wouldn’t say anything. Pleaded really.”

  “So the question is what did McNair know that he was promising not to say?”

  “That’s the annoying thing,” said Paul, “he never said. Getting killed for something you don’t know seems like a really shitty way to die.”

  “What could it have been though?” asked Brigit, as she folded her legs underneath herself on the sofa and looked into the dancing flames of the fire.

  “Well,” said Paul, “he’d have been able to implicate Fallon in the kidnapping.”

  “Yeah,” replied Brigit. “Exactly. He would. Legally, though, it doesn’t matter if he told you everything and who shot JFK to boot. Anything you know is ‘hearsay’. It’d never stand up in court. I get why he’d want McNair dead but that doesn’t explain you, and by extension me. Dead men tell no tales.”

  Brigit reached down and handed Paul the glass of wine he’d left untouched on the table. Clearly, Nurse Conroy did not like drinking alone.

  “Maybe he wants revenge on me because he thinks I killed McNair for somebody else?” said Paul.

  “Nah,” said Brigit, “that wouldn’t explain why McNair’s poor daughter, God rest her soul, got done in too.”

  Paul stopped to think about this. In the rush, it hadn’t really registered with him. A woman he’d never met was dead because of what had happened in a hospital room just over 24 hours ago, between him and her father. He had to add that to the ever-growing pile of things he didn’t know how to feel about.

  “McNair,” said Brigit, “didn’t die when the book says. If he escaped with old Romeo and Juliet, maybe he knows where they are?”

  “Maybe,” said Paul. “Is that worth killing to protect though?”

  Brigit put her glass down on the table in front of her and picked up the bottle for a refill. She shot a meaningful look at the still virtually full glass in Paul’s hand. He dutifully took a large gulp in an effort to keep up his end of the unspoken bargain.

  Brigit pointed the bottle at him.

  “It could be worth killing for,” she said. “Think about it. You’re Gerry Fallon. You’ve not exactly got a healthy respect for the value of human life. It’s 30 years later. Your brother and the missus have a whole new life somewhere, a family. Nobody would want to up sticks and run at this stage.”

  “I guess,” said Paul. “I know I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “Looking forward to what?” said Brigit, tilting the bottle to her glass.

  “Running.”

  Brigit stopped pouring and looked at him. “What are you talking about? You can’t just run away.”

  “What do you think we’re doing now?”

  “Well, hiding – temporarily, while we figure out a plan of action.”

  “I’m running,” said Paul. “That is my plan of action.”

  “But you can’t just leave!” said Brigit, a hint of outrage in her voice.

  “You watch me,” said Paul. “I am getting the hell out of here, ASAP.”

  “And go where? Do what?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Paul. “I haven’t planned beyond staying alive.”

  Since his talk with Auntie Lynn, that one thought had dominated his mind. Run, get away, live to fight another day. The only downside of that plan, was that some donkeys would achieve a considerably higher standard of living. Bastards!

  “But…” said Brigit, looking around, searching for her counter-argument. “It’s not exactly heroic, is it?”

  “Whoever said I was a hero?” said Paul. “Fallon wants me gone. I have a very limited range of choices.”

  “There is another one,” said Brigit. “We could find the secret Fallon is keeping and reveal it to the world. Then, there’d be no reason to run.”

  Paul took another sip of wine. “So let me get this straight Nurse Conroy. Your plan is that we solve a thirty-year-old case that nobody has got close to cracking? The one where the last and best witness died last night?”

  “Well… yes, basically,” she responded. “I’ve not worked out the finer details yet.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” said Paul, raising his glass in mock toast. “Good luck with that. I’ll be in somebody’s car boot on the ferry to Calais.”

  “Fluent in French, are you? And what’ll you do for money when you get there?” asked Brigit. “Your plan is about as crap as mine.”

  “Fair point,” said Paul. “To be honest with you, I am way too tired to think about it now. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Brigit drained the last of her wine.

  “Like what?”

  “Well,” said Paul, “there’s the other big mystery.”

  “Which is?”

  “Your ex-fiancé, Harry Hairplugs.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Paul grabbed the bottle of wine up from the table. “C’mon, fair is fair. I let you operate on me…”

  “Oh, please.”

  “I think I deserve an explanation of what happened there.”

  Brigit rolled her eyes and then held her glass out.

  “Alright, but this will take a lot more booze.”

  Paul gave Brigit a generous refill, before topping his own glass up with the last remaining drops. He placed the empty bottle back down on the table and then nodded at her.

  “Fire away.”

  “God, where to start?” mumbled Brigit.

  “Well, how did you let that hunk of burning love get away?”

  She cringed. “Oh stop. For a start, he didn’t always have…” Brigit waved her hand around the top of her head.

  Paul pulled a face of mock surprise. “Wait, you are kidding – that ain’t natural?”

  “Well, only in the sense that it must’ve grown somewhere at some point.”

  “Actually,” said Paul, “I’ve always wondered about that, and you’d be in a position to know. Does that hair look like it could’ve been transplanted from his arse?”

  Brigit whacked him on the arm. Not hard but, it being the right arm, the contact caused a stab of pain in his shoulder. He winced.

  “Oh God, sorry,” said Brigit.

  “No, totally my fault,” replied Paul.

  “Actually, you’re right, it was. In fact, if you’re going to make any more gobshite remarks like that, you should probably swap sides, so that your wounded shoulder is out of walloping range.”

  Paul made a show of considering this, then stood up and walked around the coffee table to the far side of the sofa. Brigit rolled her eyes and shifted over into the space he’d just vacated. He wiped some imaginary dust of the sofa cushion with his good hand, before showily sitting down in a prim and proper manner.

  “You may continue.”

/>   Brigit walloped him on the good arm.

  “What was that for?”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out in a minute,” she said. “So, I met him at a Christmas do about four years ago. He’s an architect. My friend Elaine worked in their office for a bit as a temp. She got invited back to their crimbo party. I was required to provide moral support and witness testimony for the inevitable autopsy she would be holding the next day. She was there to show Dave from Logistics how fabulous she was, and how she didn’t need him. The plan was to ignore him, and whatever happened, I was to stop her either getting into a fight with or shagging Dave.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She both shagged and got into a fight with him, I am still not sure on the order. There was a free bar, things got a little blurry.”

  “You’re an awful wingman.”

  “In my defence, I was a bridesmaid at their wedding two months ago, so it turned out alright in the end.”

  “Ah, romance.”

  Brigit walloped Paul on the arm.

  “That’s a down payment on the next one. Anyway,” she continued, “at the end of the night, a nice guy helped me get her into a taxi.”

  “Duncan?”

  “Duncan. He texted me a couple of days later. I’d apparently given him my number and… next thing you know we were a couple.”

  “Aren’t you leaving out a load of romantic detail there?” asked Paul.

  “Not as much as you’d think. To be honest, I wasn’t in a great place at the time. I was supposed to be off seeing the world but then my mum got sick and suddenly even Dublin felt like it was too far away. I was going backwards and forwards to Leitrim the whole time. He was supportive in his way. Didn’t mind me being away most weekends. It sounds stupid but it was nice to feel I had someone.”

  Paul nodded. “That’s not stupid,” he said, before taking a sip of his wine.

  “After a couple of years, he proposed, and I said yes. I was stuck. The world was off-limits and it felt like life was leaving me behind. I figured maybe I should try wanting what everybody else wants, d’ye know what I mean?”