When the phone rang, Lar Mackendrick ignored it, his attention focused on the book he was reading. The Art of War, written by a Chinaman named Sun Tzu. It wasn’t an easy read. Mackendrick was rereading a paragraph that had puzzled him first time around. He let the phone ring, as he took his time with the troublesome paragraph.
The phone finally stopped.
Three minutes later it rang again.
Lar put down the Chinaman’s book.
‘Mr Mackendrick?’
‘Who is this?’
‘Walter Bennett, Mr Mackendrick.’
For a moment Mackendrick didn’t register the name. Little over twenty-four hours since Walter had survived Karl Prowse’s best efforts. The last thing Lar expected was a call from the little fucker.
‘Walter, how the hell are you?’
Mackendrick wondered had the little man gone to the police after all, and was the phone call being recorded.
Bennett paused, as though surprised by the warmth in Mackendrick’s voice.
‘I did nothing, Mr Mackendrick, nothing to deserve this.’
‘What?’
‘Please, Mr Mackendrick—’
‘Is everything okay, Walter?’
‘I want to know why Karl Prowse tried to kill me.’
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘I did nothing wrong—’
‘Walter, what’s this about?’
‘I did nothing—’
Mackendrick applied a layer of shock to his voice. ‘Please, Walter – from the beginning – when did this happen?’
Bullshit.
No way he didn’t know.
‘Walter?’
Walter said nothing.
‘Please, Walter, what happened?’
It was misting rain and Walter leaned back against the steel shutters of the flower shop. A couple of teenage girls, both slightly drunk, came chattering past. They went into the café next door. Walter had been having a late-night snack when the anxiety became too much. On an impulse he went outside to find privacy for the phone call. No answer. He felt relieved and went back into the café and ordered another pot of tea. He’d hardly sat when the anxiety propelled him back outside, making the call again.
‘There’s no way Karl – you had to know!’
‘Walter, I swear – obviously someone’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Whatever’s happened, we can sort it out. Now, please, Walter, what the fuck happened?’
Mackendrick sounded pissed to be in the dark about this. Maybe—
Karl – the shithead—
If Mackendrick doesn’t know what happened, that means Karl’s been afraid to tell him. Fucker’s running a thing of his own.
‘Swear to me, Mr Mackendrick.’
‘I swear to you, Walter, on my mother’s grave, that I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Karl and someone else, I think it was Robbie Nugent, I didn’t see his face but it had to be – look, Karl’s always—’
‘What did he do?’
‘They had guns, Mr Mackendrick, they came into a pub, both of them – I was fucking lucky to get out of there alive.’
‘Walter, I’ll come round to your place – we need to—’
‘I’m not at home.’
‘Where are you staying?’
Walter shook his head. He kept respect in his voice when he said, ‘Mr Mackendrick, it’s not that I – I just don’t want to say.’
‘That’s fair enough. A thing like this – look, Walter – whatever happened, it had nothing to do with me and I’m really angry. You know I’m depending on you, Walter, and – I swear to you, whatever caused this balls-up, nothing like this will happen again. Ever.’
Walter opened his mouth, desperately needing to believe in Mackendrick, and closed it again, afraid of his own need for reassurance.
‘You ring me back tomorrow, Walter, or the next day, whenever you feel okay with that. I won’t sleep on it – tonight, soon as I hang up, I’m going to find out what the hell’s going on. When you’re ready, we’ll meet, we’ll sort this out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I can’t imagine what it’s about, but – Jesus Christ—’
Walter had never heard Mackendrick lose his composure. Where there had only been dread, there was now a sliver of hope.
‘Leave it with me, Walter, leave it with me.’
When the call ended, Walter stood in the street, holding the phone down by his side, wondering if he dared go home after all. The rain was heavier now and his jacket was soaked. He decided going home would be stupid. It’d have to be Sissy’s sofa again tonight.
Danny Callaghan was on his second Scotch, standing at the window of his apartment, the lights out. He let his tongue play with the taste, then let the liquid down.
A good day.
Behind him, the radio was playing something soft and melodic. It was a classical station he’d listened to a lot in prison. Callaghan didn’t know any of the composers, he hardly ever registered the titles of pieces. He just liked the feeling that came with the music. In prison the radio had been important, and it remained a part of his day. Mostly music, usually switching to RTE to get news on the hour. He listened to most of the news shows and the phone-ins. When he was inside, news of the real world had been important. If he knew what was happening he could have opinions about it, he could feel like he was still part of that world. He read a couple of newspapers each day, the real ones, the ones you could almost believe were telling something close to the truth.
In the seven months since he’d left prison, there’d been a lot of days that dribbled to an end in the small hours, his tiredness a consequence of nothing except squandered time. He had the liberty he’d longed for, year after tedious year, and he was doing nothing with it. Days like today made him feel like he had some control over his time. Driving a couple of businessmen around wasn’t what he’d pictured himself doing with his freedom, but it gave a structure to the day. He was doing something useful. And earning money. On top of the wages he’d get from Novak he got a sizeable tip from Rowe and Warner when he dropped them off at the Hilton. And another bonus was that the guy from 257 Solutions hadn’t soiled the car on the way home.
A good day.
The soft music ended and something different started. Jerky, noisy shit, like someone was trying to get a military band to put a nightmare to music. He crossed to the radio and tried the pre-sets. After surfing past a couple of pop stations he found a talk show he’d often listened to in prison. Sometimes it seemed as if the city was full of lonely, angry headbangers.
‘We don’t clutter up their country, do we?’
The radio hack said, ‘Can’t argue with that, Barney.’
The caller’s next sentence was a succession of obscenities. The radio hack emitted a prolonged chuckle. ‘Now, Barney, there’s no denying you’ve a way with words—’
Callaghan switched off. He wondered if he’d ever care enough about anything – or be lonely enough or desperate enough – to make a phone call to tell strangers how he felt about anything. Maybe the Barneys were even less connected to the world around them than Callaghan was.
He finished the Scotch, considered pouring a third and decided against. A drink or two topped off the day. Go much further and it’d feel like he was giving in to something.
On the green, across from the Hive, he could see the abandoned embers of a fire the kids had built earlier. The cider party was over.
Lying on the bed, Callaghan let himself surrender to his tiredness, the noises from the apartments above and below and from each side combining into a comforting kind of low-level hubbub.
A good day.
These days, Lar Mackendrick seldom drank alcohol. After his brother Jo-Jo’s death, when Lar took on the burden of running the business, the pressure and the drink and the grief almost killed him. He’d got through that, thank God, and now that he was secure in his health and his fitness he allowed himself just the occasional drink, late at
night.
May was in bed, the house was quiet. Lar sat by the large gas-flamed fireplace, in his white leather armchair, a glass of Merlot in his heavy John Rocha crystal. Thoughts of Walter Bennett hovered, but Lar dismissed them. He was satisfied that Walter hadn’t gone to the police, wasn’t wired for sound. Too cowed. Little man, drowning in fear. He’d get back to Lar, looking for hope. Now that he had made contact, he was just one small part of the problem – and one not too difficult to fix.
Lar found the page in his book with a corner turned down. He opened The Art of War.
When able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.
Day Three
Chapter 8
Noise.
Stopped now, but the memory echoing.
His eyelids heavy, his mouth dry, Danny Callaghan heard the thudding noise that was pulling him into consciousness, but he didn’t know what it was. In the dark he could see the luminous numbers on the clock beside the bed, but his mind was too clogged to register what they meant.
Thump – thump – thump.
Callaghan sat up. Then another trio of thumps, loud and slow and evenly spaced, a fist on the door of the apartment. It was the sound of someone who wasn’t going away. Up on one elbow, Callaghan leaned forward and squinted at the clock.
6.22.
Again, the thump, thump, thump. Then the doorbell, three jabs, then someone pressed the button and kept it pressed for at least ten seconds, followed by a repeat of the thumping.
Before the bell stopped ringing Callaghan bent over, reached down under the bed and grasped the hammer lying on the carpet. His heels off the floor, trying for stealth, arms wide to compensate his uncertain balance, he moved as quickly as he could across the room and stood off to one side of the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Come on, open up. Police. Garda Siochana.’
Possible.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Sooner or later the police would catch up and start asking questions about what happened in the Blue Parrot. Maybe this was it, maybe it was the other thing. It had been like this the first few weeks after he got out of prison. Always alert, always half expecting. Then, when nothing happened, he relaxed a bit. Now it took something real, like a couple of guys walking into a pub wearing motorcycle helmets, to bring the edge back.
Or someone thumping on the door in the night.
‘Show me some identification.’
‘Christ sake.’
A second voice. ‘Police. We don’t have all night.’
‘I’m not opening up until—’
A small white card appeared on the floor, pushed underneath the door.
Callaghan used a toe to pull the card away from the door, over to the side. When he bent to pick it up he noticed a trembling in his legs. Maybe the after-effects of suddenly broken sleep, maybe fear. Maybe just the cold.
‘Come on, open up.’ The first voice again.
The card had the Garda insignia on the right, printed in gold, and An Garda Siochana along the top, with Michael Wyndham printed underneath and below that Detective Sergeant.
‘I could get a thousand of these run off in ten minutes. Not good enough.’
‘Maybe I should call the Commissioner, ask him to get out of bed and come down here and hold your hand.’
‘Or you could just fuck off.’
After a few moments, a pale green laminated ID card was pushed under the door. This one had the same name and rank, with a photo of someone Callaghan had never seen. Could be anyone. Unlikely, though, that the kind of people he feared would go to the bother of having two kinds of cards made. People like that, they didn’t do subtle. People like that, chances were they’d have been blazing away already.
Careful not to make any noise, Callaghan slid the oiled bolt open. He took a deep breath and hefted the hammer, moved sideways a step to make room to swing his arm, then unlocked the door and jerked it quickly open. One of them matched the photo on the ID card, fat-faced, pursed lips. The other was a balding older man. Both of them stood casually, hands in the pockets of their overcoats. It was Fatface who nodded at the hammer. ‘Strange time of night to be doing a bit of DIY.’
The older one said, ‘You going to ask us in?’
The cushion Walter Bennett was using as a pillow had an embroidered map of Gran Canaria on it and when he woke up he could feel the pattern mark on his cheek. He held up his wrist to the faint light from the window.
Nearly half-six.
Too early and too cold to get up, too late to try to go back to sleep. The sofa was old and sagging and he knew his back would hurt when he stood. He lay there for almost half an hour, twisting this way and that, before the discomfort of the sofa won out against the coldness of the room. Walter shuffled towards the kitchen. The air there was even more chilled, the tiles arctic under his bare feet. He filled the kettle and switched it on, then went back to the living room and hurriedly got dressed. The kettle was one of those rapid-boil ones and when he returned to the kitchen it was making a racket, so he closed the kitchen door to keep the noise from disturbing Sissy. She’d be up soon enough, hassling the kids to get ready for school.
Walter made a cup of tea, then checked his jacket. It was still damp.
Get going soon.
Another hour or two before he could ring Mackendrick, but pretty soon two moody teenagers would be shuffling around the house and he didn’t want to get under Sissy’s feet. He’d do better to find a breakfast place where there was some warmth and wait there until it was time to ring Mackendrick.
One hell of a sister, Sissy. Gold dust.
Didn’t take a feather out of her when he turned up last night, shivering and sniffling.
‘I don’t want to be trouble, Sis.’ Standing in the doorway, rain seeping down his face.
‘Get out of that jacket, it’s saturated.’
She was a dozen years younger than Walter, her husband long gone, the two boys entering the awkward stage. She treated Walter like she was the big sister. Since she’d been in her late teens she’d mothered him, though she was ten times the woman that bitch could ever have dreamt of being.
Before she went to bed Sissy ran the iron over his shirt, to get the dampness out, but the jacket was too soaked to do anything except leave it across the back of a chair, near the living-room fireplace. Sissy gave him her dressing gown to wear and he fitted into it comfortably.
Then, the house quiet, the boys in bed, they shared a soft conversation over the kitchen table. This was the second night he’d stayed here and sometime that day someone Sissy met had told her about what had happened at Novak’s pub, the real reason why Walter hadn’t been able to go home. He’d used the excuse that he was having landlord trouble.
‘Why did they try to shoot you?’
‘Complicated.’
‘Jesus, Wally,
‘Please, Sis.’
‘You’re too old for that crap.’
Walter shook his head. ‘This has nothing – look, it’s a misunderstanding. Some people, they’ve got their wires crossed, they think – it’s not what—’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Anyway, it’s over now, I talked to a guy, I’m gonna to talk to him again, it’s gonna get sorted out.’
Sissy put her hand on Walter’s forearm. ‘I’m scared for you, Wally.’
Walter smiled. ‘I promise – I’ll sort this out. If I think I’ve still got anything to worry about I’ll be in Glasgow within twenty-four hours. Two days at the most. Stay there until this blows over.’
‘You have enough money, if you need to get out?’
‘I’m fine.’
Sissy looked at him like she wanted to believe him. Walter said it was time to get some sleep. She stood up and kissed him on the forehead, something she’d done since
she was a kid. She was still standing there in the kitchen when he patted the Gran Canaria cushion and put his head down, Sissy’s dressing gown still wrapped around him under the duvet cover.
Seven-twenty.
Should be plenty of breakfast places open by now.
Time to go.
Damp as it still was, the jacket would have to do. Once he’d sorted this out with Mackendrick he could go home, get changed. Walter swallowed the last of the tea. Jacket on, he patted his side pockets, then fingered the lapels near the collar and adjusted the jacket on his shoulders.
Wrong pocket.
He patted the left side of his chest – nothing. He was right-handed, always put the wallet in the left-hand inside pocket. The wallet was in the right-hand inside pocket. Someone had moved it.
He took it out, opened it. Tucked into the front flap he found four fifties, folded in half.
Jesus, Sissy.
Walter felt a wave of gratitude and love and shame at his own need. This wasn’t spare money. Sissy’s part-time work didn’t bring in much more than her weekly expenses. She never had any cash left over to splash out. This was money accumulated for a purpose – a bill or maybe something the boys needed. For a few moments Walter stood there, wallet in hand. Then he opened the top drawer beside the cooker, where Sissy kept a ragbag of little-used kitchen implements and coins and batteries and bottle openers and rubber bands and bills and assorted pieces of stationery. He found a sheet of writing paper and an envelope and in his best handwriting he wrote THANKS, added love you SIS and signed it W. He put the paper in the envelope and slid the four fifties in alongside, sealed the flap, wrote his sister’s name on the front and left it propped up on the kitchen counter.
The streets were still wet, but the rain was soft, no more than a mist, as Walter Bennett closed the door of his sister’s house behind him.
Chapter 9
Detective Sergeant Michael Wyndham wiped condensation from the window of Danny Callaghan’s apartment. On the green down below, the grass was coated with morning frost. Wyndham kept his hands in his pockets and flexed his shoulders a few times in a pointless effort to generate heat. Must be depressing to live in a dogbox like this, with walls like cardboard. Apartment blocks all over the place, these days, populated mostly by the young and the eager. Weaned on Sex and the City, impatient to sample the supposed sophistication of Manhattan on the Liffey, using their own money to rent, or daddy’s money to buy. During the late lamented boom, it had seemed like it took some builders no more than a long weekend to throw an apartment block together.
Dark Times in the City Page 5