On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland

by Joseph Éamon Cummins

  But hard as he clung to her, his recent experiences in Dublin flooded back: deserted streets, the strangest dark he’d ever known, if his mind was not fooling him; and that voice inside him that had taken over, that he could not stifle, and the endless walking, foreign streets, if it was real, wasn’t imagined. And Aidan Harper. And what Tony MacNeill now had to do, his next move, one that seemed unthinkable, but would be done. For he still had hope, hope for the life and love he’d just begun to know.

  Each time his eyes closed he forced them open, kept the dark at bay. But now they stung like thorns. Then Yablonski’s face reappeared. Soon he’d bury that too, he thought, for ever, in the grave of vampires and tyrants, put a stake through his heart, never to rise again. Yablonski, Yablonski, big battered bastard, Yablonski rot forever. Yablonski. He was fading, falling, back into Yablonski’s lair.

  * * *

  Inside the steel door, he froze, mind racing. Can’t run or call out, he thought. Nobody near, no guards in the wing. No escape hatch.

  ‘You hearing me, boy?!’ Yablonski snarled.

  He moved one step forward. The Shift Commander’s arm powered past him, fingers stabbing at the code pad.

  ‘I have to get the paper done. It’s just me in the shop. Billy Headington got out yesterday.’

  The door stopped sliding, clacked shut.

  Yablonski glared. ‘Don’t know no cons read the paper this late. Except pretty little foreign boys, could be.’

  ‘Paper’s running late. The front page isn’t done.’ Tony’s voice exposed none of the fear rampaging through him. ‘That’s why I need – ’

  ‘I know all about you. Who’d you think fixed your shift, boy?’ Yablonski thumped the club against his own massive chest. ‘Because right off I knew I could like you. Cute way you talk. Top of that you’re a smart boy; ain’t like them dumb fucks you and me gotta live with. Good shape you got there too, real tight; appreciate that in a man.’

  The club pointed to the inner office.

  Tony glanced to where he was being directed then back at Yablonski. He’d go along for now, had to, but he’d kill the fucker, he swore, if he put his paws near him; take his eyes out first, ram them into his head, do things he never let himself do on the street, then he’d snap the fucker’s jugular, rupture his solar plexus, crush his balls.

  At the inner office door it was the man’s white flesh that jarred him first. A slight man about his own age, long fair hair, wearing only white briefs, perched on the arm of a leather sofa, shaking, trying to cover himself, clearly not a con.

  Yablonski locked the inner door, made a show of dropping the key into his chest pocket and buttoned it closed. Tony needed no explanations. His muscles and fists ached. Strike hard, strike now, he felt, he could do that, had to, couldn’t let this happen, no fucking way could he let this happen. His eyes scanned for a weapon, anything he could use. Burst the fucker now, he decided, right now, smash his skull.

  ‘Mr Stapf. Come over from Germany,’ Yablosnki said, puckering his lips in a mock kiss. ‘Town lock-up’s full. Station boys loaned us Wolfgang for the night. Obliging of them.’

  Tony shifted his weight onto his toes, eyed the club, then saw it was strapped to Yablonski’s wrist. Go at him low, with everything, go hard, bring him down, three hundred pounds against hard tile; he could do it, he decided, he could take him down. Pick the moment, set a back-up plan, do what he was better than most at, fight. But not yet, when the distance between them lessened.

  ‘Asleep in an automobile. Believe that? Inside city limits. Violation.’ The Shift Commander grabbed the man’s blond hair, yanked him to his feet. ‘Figure that,’ he said, glancing toward Tony. ‘No sir, Mr hippie! Bad, bad, bad mistake.’ He pushed his face into the young man’s face and spoke with cheerfulness. ‘For your crime, you get to entertain us right up to 7am.’

  ‘I have to get back,’ Tony said assertively. ‘Inspection will be checking for me.’

  Yablonski released the trembling man, drifted to the side, circled about. From behind, the club snapped like a branch into Tony’s ribs. He recoiled. The room blurred, he knew he was going down, banging against the desk, kneecaps thudding, head smacking the floor, no feeling. Then his senses were returning, pain surging. He hadn’t seen it, didn’t anticipate it, a loser’s mistake he never made in Newark. Now the street code kicked in. Get up, he commanded his body. Get up! MacNeills didn’t stay down. Get Up! His legs pushed up, but gave way.

  * * *

  ‘Uuuppppp! Get up!’

  Something squeezed his shoulder, shook him, shook him again, a voice talking to him, small hands on his forehead, in his hair, tugging at his busted side. His eyes burst open, he tried to make sense of what was happening. A girl. In his face. What was she doing? Huge purple-blue eyes very, like lanterns shining, so close. Who? Why?

  ‘It’s alright, you’re alright, only a nightmare you were having,’ the bright face said. ‘Don’t be worrying. I’ve been in far horribler storms than this; believe me, I have, far horribler.’

  He wanted to reject her, dismiss her concern, be left alone, but he was in a stall, still muddled. Then all her unpainted naturalness came into focus: beautiful face, perfectly made, thin, kind, warm.

  ‘You okay, are you? You awake? I’m Cáitlín. Hi, you okay?’

  ‘Crazy dream,’ he said, pushing his hands through his hair. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine now, thanks.’

  ‘You’re from Dublin. What part?’

  ‘North side.’

  ‘I’m a Dub, too, Dundrum. I noticed you getting on with your pack. I bet that fella’s been all over the world, I said to myself. Then when I heard someone shout out, I couldn’t see who it was, but I guessed it was you; don’t know why but I did. I’m off to see the granny, in Carna; she’s ninety-one, still galloping around the place. Sure you’re alright? Truth is I hate storms; the wind especially, I hate the wind. If you want me to, I’ll sit beside you; help keep the nightmares away. Do me good, too.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll be fine. I can stretch out here. No sleep in days.’

  ‘No bother. Bound to be over soon.’ A mix of pleasantness and disappointment radiated from her. ‘Try to get your rest. I’ll wake you up if we stop, in case you feel like a cup of tea.’

  Once again he pillowed his jacket on the armrest and settled himself. Despite the howling and battering, before long he was capitulating. Back he slipped, further back, deep into sleep.

  * * *

  Down, the voice in his head kept repeating, he was on the ground still; can’t stay down, can’t stay down. His head was a jangle of noise, body damaged, pain burning in his side. Beneath his face the blood moved slowly, dark purple on terra-cotta tiles. The metal club, he’d been caught by it, sucker blow. The young undressed man was trying to sit him up. Yablonski, legs astride, weapon swinging, was standing over them.

  He cursed his disobedient brain. Stay down and you’re dead, his street voice kept warning. He made it to his hands and knees, pulled his body up, felt around his side and shoulder. The club was pointing at him now. He straightened into the pain, looked into the Shift Commander’s bloodshot eyes, eyes his avenging hands would rip out given one half chance. And he heeded his own code, learned a long time ago: show no pain, dig quietly for strength, be harder than the enemy, be like steel, that was how to stay alive.

  ‘Wipe that look off you, boy!’ Yablonski said, unhooking steel handcuffs from his belt. ‘Never ever do that, never ever smart-talk me. Y’hear? Said I like you, and I do. You obey me, be my buddy, and no one in here’ll trouble you less they answer to me. See, you and me, we can have us a whole lot of fun with our little hippie here. You get me? Huh? You follow me?’

  Tony glared at him but didn’t answer.

  ‘Putting these cuffs on you because y’aint big but you got yourself a real strong shape, and something I can’t figure about you, could be a real wildman for all I know.’

  The young man rose off the sofa arm, his body shiny with sweat.
‘Sir, I don’t know I break the rules to be sleeping in car. I know now, I don’t do it again. Never.’

  ‘You’re in Florida now, Mr hippie-man; quit your whining. We got ordinances down here for violators, bikers, draft dodgers, communists, long-haired hippies, all kinds low-life. We lock y’up!’

  The Shift Commander busied himself about the room, all the time mimicking the man’s pleas. Then the sound of scraping metal riveted Tony’s attention, a long bayonet being drawn from inside the club. Yablonski held it aloft, sighed reverentially.

  ‘Yes sir, you young boys gotta learn how to show respect. Old momma here’s cut real men, cut real good, big men, small men.’ He slid the blade back into its shaft and flung it onto a low credenza, where it thudded against the wall and came to rest.

  Tony’s eyes stayed with it, surreptitiously. He needed no education on what was coming. No sense in waiting, he told himself. Knock him out of the way, get the weapon; any weapon.

  As though alerted, Yablonski retrieved the club and made for Tony, now supporting his weight against a heavy desk. Yablonski pushed him aside, threaded a plastic hand-restraint through a hole drilled through the desk’s metal overhang, looped a second restraint through the first and secured it around Tony’s wrists; only then did he unlock the steel cuffs.

  Covert flexing had brought a degree of suppleness back to Tony’s hand. Beneath the overhang his fingers found a burr around the hole and started grinding the plastic restraint. He followed every move of Yablonski, watched shirt and shoes being removed, the unbuckling of the service belt. If he could make it to the club, he felt sure he could handle the bastard, best odds he’d get. And what then? Could he kill if he had to, if that’s what it took? He hoped he had what it took. Then what? Capital murder, death row? None of that mattered that much any more. He’d lost with life already. Just crack the pervert. Be proud.

  Yablonski stepped out of his black uniform pants, draped them over the credenza. Tony dug into his reserves, questioned his body’s readiness for what he was prepared to do. He rehearsed strike options, tried to flex and release his muscles, but his lacerated fingers were making grinding more difficult. At times his efforts seemed in vain, but each time he willed himself through, in honour of Witchell Heights he told himself, when he was king on the street, unbeatable.

  Yablonski, slapping about in Bermuda-style undershorts, had disappeared for minutes behind a narrow annex door. He returned concealing something within a folded towel, which he laid down. He grabbed the young man’s hair, forced him face-down over the sofa-back and held up the bayonet. ‘How about that, Mr hippie-man: number fifty,’ he said then looked toward Tony. ‘Bookworm’s fifty-one. Whole lot prettier. And he ain’t no pussy. Fact, red-boy could be a problem, shape like that. Come his turn, gotta lock him down good.’

  The young man straightened up, tried to speak, but only convulsed.

  ‘Never had me no Nazi, far’s I can figure. And ain’t had no hippie since Christmas before last, must be.’

  ‘Sir, officer,’ the man cried. ‘Officer, please, sir – ’

  Yablonski’s hand gripped the man’s throat. ‘Gimme any shit, your dick goes in my dick jar. Get me?’ He forced the man back over the sofa-back, held him down, then scraped the bayonet tip diagonally across his back, releasing a thin line of blood. The man screeched, wriggled violently, until a heavy fist thudded into the back of his skull, dropping him forward. Yablonski flung the unshafted blade onto the credenza.

  ‘Mein gott, mein gott, vater, mutti, nein, nein.’

  In that instant it happened. The plastic cuff gave way; just the stringy outer shell was left. Tony hid his shock; his blood-matted hands were almost free. He assessed: eight feet to the credenza, three strides, blade pointing toward him. One chance, that’s all he’d get. If he could spring, he figured, get the weapon, he’d have power, adrenaline, new strength, time to breathe; once the blade was his he’d be safe. He’d die before giving it up. Might have to. Die a fighting MacNeill. Not so bad. Maybe this was the day of the end of everything. Though his whole body was shaking now, more than he could ever remember, he’d fight, no question, harder than he’d ever fought.

  He pressed all his weight against the burr, bore the pain of metal tearing his flesh. A few more seconds, he told himself, until, unlike the first time, he’d face killing with intent, with someone to save if he succeeded, besides himself. He’d make certain the swine never raped again. This was his sacred oath, and it felt freeing. Then a wave of fear made him think of his parents and sisters, Kate’s loving kiss before they shifted him to Florida. But no, no, he had to wipe all that away, couldn’t help him now. Stay strong, focus, keep control, be hard, fast, brave, unmerciful, get the weapon!

  The plastic skin snapped.

  He sprang for the bayonet, three strides, got it, swept immediately to the side, gained balance and leverage. But the Shift Commander’s reflexes fired almost as fast. He had turned his prey in front of him, fingers of both hands embedded in the young man’s neck.

  Tony’s attention riveted to Yablonski’s face; there he’d read what was coming, as he’d done so often in other battles. He arced to his right, bayonet primed, feet and shoulders poised to drive it. Fighting with a weapon for the first time, at twenty-one, incarcerated; the irony of it flashed through his head. Four years since Margo and Stewie stopped being Margo and Stewie, since Jesus Pomental died and started haunting him. Four years of torture, to this.

  ‘Put it down!’ Yablonski roared.

  Tony noted each edgy shift in his target. The young man’s eyes had begun bulging, gurgling coming up out of his constricted throat. No way he could put it down. Too late to be afraid. Whatever was about to happen, he wouldn’t put it down. If he did, he’d die here, today. The German kid too, probably. And the swine goes free: cutting, raping, killing. The young man looked to be losing consciousness, choking, sinking lower, harder to hold up. If he dropped, it would be just him against King Kong Yablonski. One against one. The way he liked it on the street. One would win. One wouldn’t. Except here, one could die. Maybe two. Even all three.

  ‘Lay it down and this is over,’ Yablonski shouted. ‘No charges. Got my word, boy. No charges, no charges. We all walk outa here, all of us. Or you’re a fucking dead man.’

  TV talk, Tony thought. Nobody talked like that on the street, not on his streets. And with the swine’s face pumping sweat, it was clear the fear of death was in him. He faked a lunge. Yablonski jerked back, held the young man farther out in front of him. Tony registered the change; here was the mistake he’d been watching for. For this opponent knew nothing of Anto MacNeill: how his mind worked, what he could do with speed and leverage and fighting skill, what he was willing to risk, and ready to lose. He moved forward, bayonet low and angled, shoulder coiled, studying the Shift Commander’s flushed face. Then another step closer to the enemy.

  ‘Kill me or him, you fry, y’hear me? You fry! Y’hear? You fry!’ Yablonski’s words poured out, his head a damp, glistening ball.

  For Tony, rehearsal was over. He’d pick his spot, strike fast, retreat. He had him now; he was street-sure of that. He stalked his retreating target, blade tip four feet from Yablonski, two feet from the barely-conscious kid now drooling spit. Had to go for it, he told himself. At best force a surrender, then make his case. Slim chance. If not, do what he had never done deliberately. Don’t get played for a fool, don’t fuck up. No backing out now, no matter what. Miss the kid, be sure to miss the kid.

  What he’d do he had learned in boxing. The kid could still see, had instinct, which was needed for the move to work; he’d see the bayonet coming for him, he’d collapse, become a deadweight, too heavy to hold up, Yablonski would back away without his shield. The feint-and-hit. Aim directly at the kid, last-second pull back, then the strike, the real one, go all the way, with power and legs, for the Shift Commander.

  Go!

  The instant the strike started the young man’s head fell forward. Inches away, the bayo
net pulled back, then lunged explosively forward again, the real strike under way, then a corrective jiggle that slowed the weapon so that it missed the falling blond skull, raw steel still going, slicing through air, still going. Bayonet into chest, into grizzle.

  Yablonski stumbled back, stayed up, the blade in him; he pulled it out, barrelled toward the young man now on hands and knees. Tony caught the young man’s hair, tried to haul him aside, but he sank flat to the floor. Then a glimpse, the red blade flashed into Tony’s peripheral vision. Too late. He felt the metal piercing the flesh of his upper leg, then slashing across his ribcage. He was hit. Hard.

  Before the bayonet came again his reflexes shot him not into retreat but forward. He swung a hard fist into the Shift Commander’s mouth. Yablonksi reeled backwards, tripping the alarm as his naked, wet mass thudded onto the tiles. Almost immediately he was back up, mouthing vengeance. Bayonet primed, he made for the now crawling young man. Before he could strike, the steel underside of a desk chair crunched into his face, knocked him across the credenza and down, his body a blotched mess. Alarms blaring now, he scrambled up for the third time, this time without the weapon, and with a roar he charged forward. Tony stood his ground, his strike hand ready. He feigned right, jinked left, and with all the leverage his wounded body would allow, he unleashed an upward thrust. The blade drove into Yablonski’s middle. His bulk bulldozed on, crashed against a wall. He tried to extract his weapon of forty-nine notches. It would not part from him. Eyes rolling, then closing, he slid down in stages until coming to a stop, seated erect.

  Tony MacNeill surveyed the passing. Benjamin Arthur King Kong Yablonski, Shift Commander, State Prison. Pervert, and more.

  Dead.

  22