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

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Was it about Bandon?”

  “I can’t remember.” Paul stared down at the table. It was bugging him. There had been something on the tip of his tongue and then it had slipped away. Brigit, for her part, started looking through Dorothy’s first aid kit at her bandaging options.

  “So you reckon he definitely said Bandon?” asked Brigit.

  “I did, but you keep saying stuff like that, and now you’re making me doubt myself.”

  “Sorry.”

  Paul drummed his hands on the table. “Bandon, yeah – Bandon. I say we run with that, otherwise I’m just some idiot who keeps getting walloped for no reason. Let’s drive down there tomorrow.”

  “And do what?”

  “Investigate, of course,” said Paul, “assuming you can’t solve the whole thing by having a quick rummage around in their twitter feed.”

  “You’re very gung ho all of a sudden.”

  “OK, brace yourself but… you were right. It does feel good not to be just running away, to finally be in control of the situation.”

  Then the glass door to the garden slid open and a man in a balaclava calmly stepped into the room. He was pointing a gun at them.

  Paul sighed. “Well, it was nice while it lasted.”

  The man held a finger to his lips, before speaking in a surprisingly soft and depressingly calm voice. “Are you alone?”

  They both nodded. Paul detected a trace of an eastern European accent. The man cocked his ear and listened, before nodding as if satisfied. Then he slid the door closed behind him, leaving the gun trained on them the whole time.

  “Would you put your hands in the air, please?”

  The polite way in which he asked the question was in stark contrast to the gun that was rudely pointed at them. With no other option available, they both meekly complied.

  “I have been asked to ask you: who have you told?”

  Brigit and Paul looked at each other, before Brigit answered. “Told what?”

  There was a long moment of awkward silence. Paul didn’t mind it personally. He could take a lot of social awkwardness before death became the preferred option.

  “I do not know,” said the man. “I have not been told that, for obvious reasons.”

  “I swear,” said Paul, “we can’t tell anybody anything because we don’t know anything. They just think we do. It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  The balaclava-clad man leaned his head to one side as if considering this, and then nodded to himself. “OK.” Then he stepped towards Paul and pointed the gun at his head.

  “Whoa, whoa. I just told you we don’t know anything.”

  “Yes. Thank you. Now I am able to kill you and this unfortunate business can be over.”

  “Wait,” said Brigit. “We’ve actually told loads of people.”

  “She’s put it on Twitter.”

  He shook his head. “No, you did not. For what it is worth, I am sorry to do this. We have a code. We don’t normally do civilians or women. ”

  “So why now?”

  “They have my niece. Her father is already dead.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” responded Brigit. Paul looked at her and she shrugged. “Well, I am.”

  “Why not just pretend we are dead?”

  “That will not work. They will know. I have no choice.”

  “No, honestly I…”

  “Reach for the sky!”

  The heads of everyone in the room turned to face the door into the living room, where Dorothy stood with her gun extended in a shaky hand. The man in the balaclava swivelled his weapon towards her.

  “Wait,” screamed Paul, leaping to his feet and throwing himself in front of Dorothy. “It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real!”

  His entire body tensed for a shot that didn’t come.

  “It’s an antique, it’s been disabled,” continued Paul. “Please, Dorothy, go back inside.”

  “There’s some munt in a balaclava in my house.”

  “She’s got dementia,” said Paul. “The gun is just a harmless antique, honestly. Please, she has nothing to do with this.”

  “What is going on, Gregory?”

  Paul extended his hands. “See! She doesn’t even know my name. I’m the one you want; neither of the women know anything. Please, Dorothy, put the gun away.” He started moving towards the man in the balaclava. Then he clicked his fingers.

  “I remember now. It was Mickey, wasn’t it?”

  “What?” said Brigit.

  Paul answered her without turning his eyes from the gunman.

  “He’s the delivery guy from the takeaway I always use. It occurred to me earlier. He delivered here a couple of times.”

  “Oh yes,” said Dorothy. “They really are tremendous and very good value.”

  The balaclava-clad man looked at Brigit. “Your friend put them as his next of kin on his hospital form.”

  “What? Who does that?” asked Brigit.

  “I’d nobody else alright?” said Paul, sounded hurt. “My last moments on earth and you’re going to make me feel bad about my shitty life?”

  “I was just…”

  “No, keep going,” interrupted Paul. “That’s just terrific. That’s one hell of a bedside manner you’ve got there. It’s almost hard to believe you got me stabbed.”

  “Oh for… You’re going to bring that up again?”

  “Silence.” The man spoke in a calm voice as he extended his gun towards Paul, who had been subtly inching towards him. “Stop moving, please. The trick where you distract me by having an argument has only ever worked in movies.”

  “Oh well, fair enough,” said Paul.

  “Wait, what were we doing?” asked Brigit.

  The man’s brown eyes looked into Paul’s. “If it is any consolation, I offered your delivery man a lot of money and he would not take it. “

  “So how…”

  “I offered him a lot of pain instead.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is he?”

  “He is OK. There was no need for him to die. He really did put up a surprising amount of effort to protect you. You should be proud.”

  “I am a very good customer.” A thought struck Paul. “I don’t suppose he mentioned what his second name was?”

  “It did not come up.”

  “Never mind. I’ll ask him now. Hi Mickey!”

  Paul waved behind the gunman, who turned slightly, before reacting with depressing speed when he realised it was a bluff. By which time, Paul had hardly begun launching himself at him. The man stepped back and expertly landed a left hook into Paul’s jaw as he lunged. He went down, hard. The pain reverberated around his head. His left shoulder thumped against the polished metal of the cooker door as he crumpled to the ground, adding to the cacophony of pain. He rolled onto his back and felt the man’s foot being placed firmly in the centre of his chest. Paul was dimly aware of both Brigit and Dorothy gasping and swearing in shock. He watched as the man quickly pointed the gun at each of them in turn, to stop any other ill-judged attempts at heroics.

  “That was brave, predictable and stupid.”

  “Yeah,” said Paul, struggling to draw air back into his lungs, “well you’re going to shoot me either way, right?”

  “True.”

  Paul watched with fascination as the barrel of the gun was turned downwards, to all of two feet from his head. He should have felt fear but he didn’t have the energy.

  He clamped his eyes shut and a shot rang out, followed by the sound of the glass in the patio door behind him shattering. Paul opened his eyes again when he realised that against all odds he could still do so. It hadn’t been he who had screamed out in pain but the gunman, who was now awkwardly dancing about, his hand clutching the right side of his ribcage, where it appeared the bullet had grazed him. Paul grabbed the foot on his chest and twisted it, trying to send the man further off balance. He glanced at Dorothy, who looked shocked as she clutched her right wrist to her chest, her gun on the
ground before her, knocked from her frail hand by the recoil. The gunman span back around. He held his left hand to his wounded side as he raised his gun towards Dorothy. Then, like a whirling dervish of fury, Brigit Conroy rugby tackled him through the patio door. Glass rained down around them as they fell out into the garden.

  Paul grabbed the handle of the stove’s door and dragged himself to a standing position. The room span around him as he clutched onto the counter in an effort to remain upright. He shook his head clear and looked into the garden. There was Brigit sprawled out on the paved area. Beside her, the man in the balaclava was on his knees, crawling through the broken glass to where his gun lay, five feet away.

  Paul grabbed the nearest thing to him and rushed out through the smashed door, tripping on the frame as he did so. Shattered glass crunched beneath his feet as he stumbled forward. The man had picked up his gun and was turning towards him. With a wildly desperate lunge, before gravity and his own feeble body caught up with him, Paul delivered a forearm smash into the side of the man’s head with the frying pan. He slumped down unconscious, before Paul tripped over his own feet and collapsed onto the grass behind him.

  He lay there spread-eagled in the darkness, staring into the night sky. The clouds had cleared, leaving a rather nice view of some stars. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the Great Bear. He’d got a book on astronomy in the 3 for 2 euros bin.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Hello?”

  Paul was taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting a male voice at the other end of the phone. He shifted the bag of frozen peas he was holding awkwardly against his left jaw in an attempt to lessen the inevitable swelling. He’d decided to abandon the sling on his right arm. Stiches be damned. If people were going to keep punching him, whacking him in the back of the head with bottles and attempting to shoot him, he wanted both hands free to fend off at least some of the blows.

  “Hi, can I speak to Nora Stokes, please?”

  “Is this Mr Mulchrone?”

  “That depends. Who’s asking?”

  “It’s DI Jimmy Stewart.”

  “I don’t want to talk to the police.” Paul looked at the unfamiliar handset of Dorothy’s phone, looking for the button to hang-up.

  “Wait!” said Stewart. “I don’t blame you but you need to listen to me. There’s been an incident. Nora had a visit from one of Gerry Fallon’s thugs.”

  Christ, thought Paul, he kept dragging more and more innocent people into this. “Is she OK?”

  “Absolutely. In fact, between you and me, she handled it bloody brilliantly. The woman is a badass. She left her mobile number for you if you need to reach her. My partner is staying with her to make sure she’s OK. Look, I understand why you’d be sceptical, but I want to help you. In fact, I’ve been suspended for trying to help you. You can believe me or not, but I don’t think you’re in a situation where you’ve got too many friends.”

  Paul considered this. He’d never met Stewart but every time he’d come up in conversation, Brigit had said how she felt they could trust him. He looked out the shattered door onto the back lawn, where said nurse was currently checking on the physical well-being of the unconscious man that had been sent to kill them, having hogtied him first. It turned out she was an expert in knots as, in the least surprising revelation ever, she’d been a Girl Guide. Paul wasn’t that worried about their assailant’s health. His gunshot wound was minor and it hadn’t been that big a frying pan. Besides, it wasn’t like they’d met under the most favourable of circumstances. Dorothy, on the other hand, he felt terrible about. He glanced at her, sitting at the kitchen table, cupping her badly sprained wrist to her chest. Suddenly she looked so much frailer than she’d ever done before. He felt horribly guilty for bringing this to her door.

  “Alright, take down this address. 17 Waverly Gardens, Blackrock. You need to wait 30 minutes and then send police and two ambulances. You’ll find a sweet lady called Dorothy Graham. She’s 83 and has a badly sprained wrist.”

  “Oh dear God,” interrupted Dorothy. “Why is it that when a lady reaches a certain point in life, all of a sudden people are fine openly discussing her mucking age?”

  “Hang on a sec,” said Paul into the phone before holding it to his chest.

  “Settle down there, ‘Quickdraw’. By the way, Pang Lee told me all your guns had been disabled?”

  “Yes, took me ages to fix it. Honestly, what use would a gun be that didn’t shoot?”

  Paul considered this. “You’ve got a point,” was what he said, but all he could think about was the number of times she’d casually waved that gun at him over a game of Risk. He uncovered the receiver.

  “Along with Miss Graham, age unknown, you’ll find an unconscious man, with a non-critical gunshot wound, hog-tied on the lawn.”

  “Holy crap,” said Stewart. “Who shot him?”

  “That would be the sweet old lady. By the way, we’ve already called her lawyers, they will be here when the police arrive. Nurse Conroy and I will be long gone by then, but you have our assurances that she acted entirely in self-defence.”

  “Hence the lawyers,” said Stewart.

  “It’s complicated. Her lawyer is Louie Dockery by the way.”

  Stewart sighed deeply. Even Paul had known that name. Turns out Dorothy had serious legal firepower at her command, as well as actual firepower.

  “And where,” asked Stewart, “will yourself and Nurse Conroy be?”

  “Ah now, that’d be telling.” Where they would be was on the way to Bandon, trying to figure out what on earth they were caught in the middle of. Now that they had no choice but to lose their only safe hiding place, their options were very limited.

  “Fair enough,” said Stewart. “I do have a message for you though, from Bunny McGarry.”

  Paul’s pulse quickened at the name. “I’ve no interest in hearing anything he’s got to say.”

  “Look, I know you and he have some very complicated personal history.”

  Paul laughed derisively. If that wasn’t the mother of all understatements.

  “But I also know he’s been trying to help you, and he swears he has vital information.”

  “So why’d he not just give it to you?”

  “It turns out, he trusts the Gardaí even less than you do. He said something about having a falling out with somebody during the course of his inquiries.”

  “I bet. That prick falls out with everybody eventually.”

  “Still, if I were you, I’d want to hear him out. As discussed, how many friends have you got?”

  “Bunny doesn’t have friends.”

  Stewart sighed again. He sounded almost as tired as Paul felt. “True enough but I’d meet him anyway.”

  “Well this doesn’t sound like a trap at all. And where is this meeting supposed to take place?”

  “He said you’d know where.”

  “What’s that supposed to…” and then Paul stopped because he realised he did know exactly where. Typically bloody Bunny McGarry.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  A soft drizzle fell around them in the darkness. Brigit pulled the Bentley into the curb, turned off the engine and looked over at Paul. He was slouched in the passenger seat, the packet of frozen peas still pressed to his swollen jaw. They’d hardly spoken since they’d left Dorothy’s house.

  “Are you sure about this?” she asked softly.

  He starred out the window. “No, I’m not sure about any of this. I’m not sure about trusting this lunatic old bastard. I’m not sure if I even want to see him, and I’ve no idea why he’s trying to help me now. If he really is.”

  “Right,” said Brigit. “I was actually only asking about parking here but —” Brigit shifted awkwardly around in the driver’s seat to face Paul. “Do you want to talk this through?”

  “Oh God, no. I’m having a bad enough night as it is, please don’t make me talk about my feelings now too.” Paul opened the door and awkwardly hauled himself out of the
Bentley’s plush leather seats. He understood why Brigit was concerned about the car. They were on Phillpot Street. This was not a place he’d have wanted to park his clapped out Ford Cortina, back before it’d been blown up by the bomb squad. That’s why he knew that in the perverse logic of these streets, this car was as safe as it could ever be. They didn’t even need to lock the doors. For someone to park this kind of car here, they were one of two things: epically stupid or ‘somebody’. The local gurriers, assuming they’d any sense, wouldn’t want to take the risk of guessing wrongly. There was more chance of them coming back to find somebody had washed it than done it any damage.

  The wave of gentrification that’d swept over Dublin in the Celtic Tiger years of the nineties and early noughties had parted to avoid the whole Phillpot Street area. Its flats, and they were flats, no ‘apartments’ here, had remained almost untouched since they’d been built a hundred years ago. It may’ve been a fairly short walk from there to the centre of town, but you’d want to be walking pretty damn quickly, and carrying a big stick to boot. The most surprising thing about the area was how little it had changed since Paul had last stood on this street 15 years ago. The same down-in-the-mouth blocks of flats stood around them, picked out in places by the few working streetlights. The only thing that struck Paul as odd was the strangely sweet smell of burning tar and rubber that hung in the air.

  Paul turned and walked towards the rusted old gates of St. Jude’s GAA club. ‘Club’ was a rather grand title for what was, in effect, one pitch and three portacabins which served as changing rooms. It didn’t have a proper clubhouse and it was unique in Dublin GAA circles for being the only club that played strictly hurling, no football allowed. The tall forbidding outer walls were topped with battered netting and were noticeably graffiti free. The netting looked even more careworn and ragged than Paul remembered. Theoretically it was there to stop slithors leaving the field, but in reality every one of the surrounding flats probably had a ball through the window at some point. Nobody minded much, or, if they did, not much was said. There was an understanding. If anybody had any trouble from the criminal element, Bunny would be on the case. Every summer, he would also bring a bunch of his young fellas around; they’d repaint a few walls and generally take more care of the place than the council ever did. In exchange for that, the occasional leather covered ball travelling at high speed through your kitchen window was a small price to pay.