Dark Times in the City

by Gene Kerrigan

  No other word for it.

  Magic.

  Robbie pulled the bodies into the bedroom, manoeuvred them beneath the bed – had to get down flat, far side of the bed, pull like fuck at the corpse’s feet. Finished, he looked around – everything kosher. Use the elevator, you maybe bump into a witness, so he went down the stairs to the ground floor of the apartment block and found his car two streets away.

  Robbie sought to control the exhilaration. His squealing sound of triumph had become an impatient humming.

  Don’t fuck it up now.

  He eased the car away from the kerb and turned out of the Cullybawn estate, onto the main road.

  Like a remote control. Your thumb presses a button and six feet away the channel changes.

  Magic.

  Killing someone is a big step. You can do a bit of most things and when you’re caught they give you a break and you get probation, maybe a fine. Keep doing it, they’ll eventually start putting you inside.

  Not murder.

  Different altogether.

  You step over that line once and it’s instant big-time. If they get you for that, the bastards tear a huge hole in your life.

  That’s the downside.

  The upside. You go over that line, you’ve stepped up into another league.

  Doing Walter Bennett hadn’t seemed like such a big step. That was like giving someone a beating and you take it a little further than usual and he’s snuffed. Shooting Declan Roeper – Robbie was embarrassed about that. Shooting a man already lying in his grave – he could tell that Karl was angry and he didn’t blame him. Stupid thing to do.

  Going after two people with an automatic pistol, taking them out like a pro. That was something else.

  Right up into the fucking premiership.

  Heading back towards the city centre, staying the right side of the speed limit, Robbie began singing an old Tupac song about when we ride on our enemies. Like Tupac said – you fuck around with us, you get tossed up.

  Chapter 39

  Karl Prowse looked down at the man’s body on the kitchen floor.

  Job done.

  Tom Richie had staggered a bit, then his legs had given way and he’d reached out and pulled some stuff off the counter. A saucepan clattered on the brown tiles, a plate smashed a moment later, and he was dead by then.

  Karl went to the front window and checked outside. Getting into the house had been chancy. He rang the bell and when the target came to the door in his dressing gown Karl quietly showed him the pistol. ‘I just need to talk.’

  The hope was that the guy would back off, just let him in, so there’d be no need to cause a rumpus and attract attention. Instead, the fucker tried to close the door and Karl had to kick it open and follow him down the hall, swinging the front door shut behind him, then do the business in the kitchen.

  Looks okay.

  Nothing stirring out front. No neighbours staring at the house, nothing unusual. Job done. At least this one worked out. The first one, by the canal – that was a stupid plan. If he’d waited any longer for Cillian Connolly to come jogging along Tom Richie might have been up and gone by the time Karl got here.

  ‘Tom? You all right?’ Woman’s voice.

  Fuck.

  Footsteps coming down the stairs.

  Tom Richie lived alone.

  Must have got lucky last night.

  She came barefoot into the hall. Long hair dyed deep red, about eighteen – which made her a dozen years younger than Richie, lucky bastard. Wearing a black shorty nightdress, sleep in her eyes and her tits hanging out – a ride and a half.

  ‘What if someone walks into the middle of something?’ Karl Prowse had asked at the war council.

  Lar Mackendrick had said, ‘We improvise, we carry on. The important thing is that nothing gets out that might reach Frank Tucker – not until we’re ready.’

  Karl Prowse shot the woman twice in the chest.

  Shit.

  The way he’d planned it was that he’d take this Richie guy upstairs and do the business in the bedroom. That didn’t happen. Now he had to drag the fucking body up the stairs to hide it under the bed, just in case of casual visitors over the next hour or so. And on top of that he had to carry the bitch upstairs too.

  Shit.

  Five down. Plus the woman Karl had wasted, whoever she was. Lar Mackendrick sipped a coffee in the kitchen. He’d drawn lines through five of the names on his list as the texts came through confirming the kills. One no-show so far. Better percentages than he’d expected.

  Halfway there.

  Frank Tucker was an impossible target. He lived in an ex-council house on the Cullybawn estate – reinforced doors and windows and multi-camera CCTV made a direct assault out of the question. Frank never travelled anywhere without at least three of his people backing him up.

  Lar had identified sixteen of Frank’s hard-nosed lieutenants, any one of whom might pick up the ball and run with it if Frank went down. They all had to go.

  This morning the most vulnerable eleven were scheduled to be shot. The rest of Frank Tucker’s inner circle usually spent their mornings in places where a quiet hit was out of the question. They’d be dealt with later.

  Of the eleven scheduled to be shot, five had already gone. Cillian Connolly hadn’t come jogging along the Royal Canal, so there was one no-show. Not Karl’s fault, and he’d made a good job of Tom Richie. Robbie had dealt handily with Perryman and Cowell. And Dolly had taken out his first two targets.

  The important thing was that so far Frank hadn’t a clue that five of his hard men were gone. All done invisibly, the bodies concealed for a few hours. Just one target on the list, Fiachra O’Dwyer, would be done publicly. And that would bring Frank out of his shell. He’d be angry, looking to find out who dared strike down one of his people, seeking revenge. He’d call an emergency meeting, and the rest of his inner circle would gather round. By the time he started to wonder why most of his top people hadn’t turned up it would be too late. Frank Tucker would be dust.

  Restless, Lar went out into his back garden and took a deep breath of cold air. Looking out beyond the harbour to where the mist hung over Ireland’s Eye, one hand in his pocket, holding the chequered grip of the Walther P22, Lar could feel the blood singing in his veins.

  At first, Danny Callaghan thought there must have been a mistake.

  ‘I’m here to pick up the van.’

  The young woman with the short blonde hair looked at him as though he was speaking a language she didn’t know.

  Callaghan said, ‘This is Karl’s house, right?’

  She nodded slowly.

  She was terribly young. Not yet out of her teens, but the edges of her eyes and the corners of her mouth seemed wilted. The little kid in her arms was bored, the baby in the buggy in the hall was crying. Karl’s wife seemed distant from it all, like she’d woken up and found herself somewhere strange.

  ‘Karl said you’d have the keys to the van. I’ve to pick it up – a white van?’

  She still looked puzzled, but mention of the keys gave her something to fix on. She turned and reached over to a shelf in the hall, picked up a set of car keys and gave them to Callaghan.

  ‘What about the garage? Have you got the key for that?’

  ‘It’s on the ring,’ she said.

  Danny nodded. ‘Thanks. You okay?’

  She said nothing, just stepped back and closed the door.

  When he got the van out he went back and locked the garage door. He could hear the baby crying inside the house. He got into the van and he gunned the engine, suddenly needing to be away from here.

  Coming off the M50 on the west side of the city, Danny Callaghan reached his destination, the grounds of St Ursula’s church, in Cullybawn. He took out his mobile, looked at the piece of paper that Lar had given him and began punching in numbers. He could hear a ringing tone at the other end as he glanced into the back of the van, at a large grey blanket covering something in the freight bay. Th
e van was grimy, tattered pieces of cardboard scattered on the floor, along with a few fragments of polystyrene packing material. The phone to his ear, he stood up from his seat, leaned over and pulled at the blanket. Underneath there was what looked like a large beer barrel, set on its side, encased in some sort of rectangular metal cage. The whole thing was bolted to the floor of the van.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Callaghan sat back in the driver’s seat.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘You pick it up?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Where you said.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Do I just leave it here?’

  ‘Now comes phase two.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Callaghan looked round at the barrel. It was as though the air around it was suddenly colder, the edges of the container and its casing more stark against the dusty, untidy setting of the commonplace van. Black tape at the rim, holding in place a small white plastic box and a twisted bunch of plastic-coated wires.

  Jesus.

  ‘What’s in the barrel?’

  Mackendrick said, ‘Listen carefully to your instructions.’

  ‘What’s in the barrel?’

  ‘Danny—’

  ‘I’m getting out of here.’

  Mackendrick’s voice was harsh. ‘Say yes.’

  Callaghan said nothing.

  ‘Say yes, right now – I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘What’s in the barrel?’

  ‘Listen very carefully. Your ex-missus has a sister, she manages a hairdressing salon in Rathmines. Her name’s Lisa. And she has an older brother, a lawyer, he lives in Bray with his wife and his two kids.’

  Mackendrick paused, then he said, ‘The lawyer’s name is Matthew, he’s married to Joan. The kids are Karen and Trish.’

  ‘Don’t you even fucking think—’

  ‘No point talking unless you calm down.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Point is – I’ve got a list of possible targets. So many, I can’t miss. I’m going to give you very simple instructions, and you follow them or you’re going to be up to your ankles in blood.’

  Callaghan stayed silent.

  ‘It’s simple. You’re five minutes away from the Venetian House. You park the car there. By the end of the day, this will all be—’

  ‘You can’t do this.’

  ‘I can reach out any time I want and your ex-wife, your girlfriend, a whole list of people – pop, and it’s over for them – one, or two or three of them.’

  ‘That’s a bomb.’ Callaghan realised he was whispering.

  ‘It’s putting Frank on notice, that’s all. No one’s going to get hurt. Before anything happens, we phone a warning, they clear the place out and boom. Frank needs a lesson – that’s all.’

  ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘Discussion is over. Do it now – or take the consequences.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘Say yes – or I hang up. Say yes – or by tomorrow morning I kill at least two from that list. If you run, or you say shit to anyone, cops or anyone else, I do two more.’

  Callaghan rubbed hard at his forehead.

  Mackendrick said, ‘It’s not like you have a choice.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘The Venetian House has a big window, looks like a stained-glass window, some ponce rowing a boat – you drive there right now and you park the van as close to that window as you can get. Lock the van and walk away. Go home, stay home. We’ll talk again – but this is the last thing I want you to do.’

  ‘Please—’

  ‘Say yes.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘You’re killing your ex-missus.’

  Danny said nothing.

  ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Say yes.’

  Danny’s throat was dry. He swallowed and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. You’re being watched every second. Anything you do, anywhere you go, we know about it.’

  Chapter 40

  Lar Mackendrick parked halfway down Ballantyne Avenue. He was driving one of Danny Callaghan’s stolen cars, a white Primera. He put the Walther P22 on the passenger seat and took out his list. Dolly Finn had capped another two targets, Karl Prowse had done one more. Another of Dolly’s targets was a no-show. Lar updated the list, drawing lines through names. A good strike rate – eight down and two no-shows.

  One to go.

  Lar was early. At least another – he looked at his watch – half-hour before Fiachra O’Dwyer arrived. Best to be on the safe side.

  Ballantyne Avenue wasn’t an avenue to anywhere. One end butted up against a railway embankment, with a pedestrian lane leading to a parallel street. At the other end there was a narrow street that led out onto the main road into the city centre. Most of the houses on Ballantyne Avenue were narrow, two-up-two-down, at least a century old. Halfway down the street, where Lar was parked, there were three shops – in the middle of which was the tanning salon run by Fiachra O’Dwyer.

  Lar switched on the radio and listened to two idiots arguing about the debt crisis.

  He was pleasantly surprised when O’Dwyer arrived after twenty minutes. His green Renault pulled up a couple of yards ahead of Mackendrick’s car. Tall, skinny, wearing his usual denim, O’Dwyer hopped out and opened the boot. He took out two Tesco bags, then fiddled with something inside the boot.

  ‘Hey, Fiachra.’

  When O’Dwyer turned around, Lar Mackendrick was maybe ten feet away and coming closer.

  ‘Lar.’

  ‘I thought it was you. That’s Fiachra O’Dwyer, I said to myself.’

  O’Dwyer put the Tesco bags on the ground.

  Lar’s right hand was close to his side. He moved it slightly, to let O’Dwyer see the Walther.

  ‘Lar—’

  ‘No doubt about it, I said to myself – that’s Fiachra O’Dwyer.’

  ‘We have a deal, Lar – you and Frank—’

  ‘Watching the DVD – skinny fucker steps out in front of the camera – laughing at Matty – I didn’t see your face, but I’ve known you long enough. No doubt about it, I said to myself, that’s Fiachra O’Dwyer.’

  Lar could see it in his eyes. O’Dwyer was considering making a run for it. Lar didn’t want this to turn into a chase, so he gave O’Dwyer a moment’s hope.

  ‘I want you to take a message to Frank.’

  O’Dwyer was breathing fast. He said nothing.

  ‘That’s okay, isn’t it? It’s okay I use you as a messenger?’

  ‘What’s this about?’

  Lar shot him in the stomach.

  O’Dwyer would have fallen to the ground, but the Renault was right behind him and he ended up half-sitting into the boot, his mouth open, his eyes wild.

  ‘Why did you spit in Matty’s face?’

  ‘Lar—’ O’Dwyer’s voice was a croak.

  ‘What Frank did, I can see the logic in that. But spitting in the face of a man in that position – Jesus Christ.’

  O’Dwyer raised his chin, his mouth strained.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Lar shot him in the crotch. O’Dwyer screamed and stood up. His head hit the open lid of the boot, then his legs gave way and he fell to the ground. Lar put a bullet low-down and to one side of his back, aiming for a kidney. Then, when O’Dwyer rolled over in agony, mouth agape, incoherent noises streaming out, Lar leaned down and put another one in his belly, and two more in his head.

  The six shots from the unsilenced gun echoed around the street. Lar was behind the wheel, driving slowly, almost at the end of the avenue, when he looked in the wing mirror and saw someone tentatively crossing the street from the tanning salon, towards O’Dwyer’s body.

  Any time now, Frank Tucker would get the message.

  Karl Prowse left the clean mobile on the dashboard and used his own phone to call his friend Francie.
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br />   ‘Come on – you’ve got to be kidding.’

  ‘That’s the price,’ Francie said.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘He says he can’t do it any cheaper.’

  The bastards give you a bare-bones price and that gets your juices flowing, then they come up with the extras. A weekend in Manchester, Karl and five friends, a reasonable hotel, tickets for Old Trafford and Saturday night in Sankey’s, where you might or might not pull, but you’d end up well wasted, which was the whole point.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward.’

  ‘Me too. Okay, let’s do it.’

  Karl rang off.

  He’d parked alongside the mini-mart across the road from the Venetian House. A good morning’s work. Two clean hits, no snags, apart from the bitch at Tom Richie’s place and that had worked out. He’d just had a call from Lar on the clean mobile – Fiachra O’Dwyer was history and about now Frank Tucker should be starting to work up a sweat.

  This works out – Jesus – if this works out there’s no limit.

  As Lar’s right hand, the opportunities were endless.

  And Lar’s an old man, not going to be around forever.

  So simple. A couple of years back, when Karl killed a Chink and got arrested and it all fell apart for the cops, that was just temper and he could have spent fifteen years in jail. Stupid. Anyone could do that. This time, this was doing it for a purpose, with a real pay-off.

  Karl sat up, thumbs drumming on the steering wheel. Across the road, the white Ford transit van he’d last seen in his garage was slowing down, turning in to the Venetian House car park, Danny Callaghan at the wheel.

  Get it done. Get out fast.

  This time of morning, there were less than a dozen cars in the Venetian House car park. The space in front of the gondolier window was empty.