All the Dead Voices

by Declan Hughes

  Almost the worst thing was, Dessie had made the mistake of kissing Paul’s forehead, and of course it was full of chemicals and stuffed with whatever the fuck, it felt like he’d kissed a department-store mannequin or something and he couldn’t get the feeling—it was like a bad taste, it clung to his lips, the sensation of it, of thinking he was going to kiss his brother’s brow and it not being his at all, not being him. Not easy at all, fuck.

  And there was Liam all solemn-eyed and respectable, like grief had dignified the fucker. It made Dessie uncomfortable, not that that was necessarily a bad thing, kept you on your toes, watching for the next mistake you or some other fucker might make and let it be him not you, but he just wasn’t used to it with fucking Liam. Still, it meant when Dessie suggested they walk down into town that Liam didn’t once look longingly at a single pub let alone mention the few scoops to settle the nerves even though Dessie wouldn’t’ve minded himself to be honest.

  On the way, Dessie laid it out for Liam: that there was a fair chance they might get hit, that on top of that, they were there to avenge their brother’s death, that the same people—Jack Cullen, Lamp Comerford, the Halligans—were the likely lads in each circumstance, that they had to play it cool but they had to be ready, which was why they were going to take a taxi up to Larry Knight’s place where Larry had some guns they might need for protection.

  And Liam, no shouting or crying or grandstanding, said simply:

  For protection, or to plug the cunt or cunts who done Paul.

  Fair play, big bro, that’s the correct fucking temperature.

  Larry Knight’s place was up in the Dublin Mountains. It didn’t look like much from the front: hard against the road, electric gates opened and there was this sprawling concrete bungalow, like a bunker, Dessie thought, and he’d heard so much about it over the years, Larry’s place, like it was a real fucking palace. More knackerology, more skin-pop hole talk, Dessie thought to himself.

  And then they got inside, and wasn’t the entire back wall of Larry’s place made of glass, and didn’t it drop down a floor and all, and wasn’t there nothing beneath it but sloping fields and houses and then out beyond this fucking view, this panorama, Dublin Bay the whole way around, unbelievable even today, all slate gray and overcast; at night, Dessie thought, it must look like the world on fire.

  And here’s Larry, snow-white ponytail, immaculate white sportswear, the gold chains, the shark’s-tooth earrings, the whole fucking deal: Larry Knight, the original and still the best, living like a king high above the city he turned on to smack and coke and dope. Many came after, but someone has to be the first, and Larry was that for so many: there were kids down there that Larry turned their fucking grandparents on, three generations of dealers who owed it all to Mr. K. Dessie Delaney knew well it was fucking horrible, he’d seen the kids being taken off parents who were incapable, and worse, he’d seen the kids who weren’t but should have been, he’d escaped a fate like that by the skin of his teeth. Still, he couldn’t help admire Larry: there was something old school about him. He had class, Mr. K, everyone was agreed on that. Must be nice up here, looking down on it all. And in a game where no one lasted very long, Larry had seen most of them off, and was hoping to see the rest before long.

  Larry greeted them and said he was sorry for their trouble and led them downstairs and into a room with a full-size snooker table and a darts board and a roulette wheel and a bar with taps and optics and all, like a club it was, all red velvet curtains and dark green leather walls with pictures of the seven rebels executed after the 1916 rising and the Proclamation of Independence they’d read from the steps of the GPO in O’Connell Street mounted on the wall. Mr. K had class, of that there was no doubt.

  On the bar were three shot glasses of whiskey and they each knocked one back: For Paul. Which was a nice touch, Dessie thought. Dessie didn’t really drink but he didn’t Not Drink either, even though they warned him after rehab to steer clear of booze, it’s the classic…transference mechanism, they called it, meaning you douse your craving for smack in booze and pretty soon you’re just as hooked on alcohol as you ever were on heroin. Dessie had kept clear of booze anyway, mainly because he’d never really liked the taste. There were some times though—and seeing the embalmed corpse of your little brother was one of those times—when a cup of tea just wasn’t going to do it.

  The guns were on a dark wood table, wrapped in off-white tarpaulin. There were Steyr machine pistols and Glock semiautomatic handguns and an AK-47 and magazines and clips of ammunition. Dessie wasn’t an expert but these were simple pieces that didn’t really need much expertise. Larry was talking in that Dublin with an American-burr accent of his about what a terrible thing the death of a blood relation was, and how, sadly, the only way to atone for this sin against the Great Spirit (along with the bling, Larry wore necklaces and wristbands of colored beads and was known to have a Native American thing going on) was in certain circumstances to spill blood in return: eye for eye, tooth for tooth, stripe for stripe, blood for blood, said Larry, ramping up the preacher vibe a stretch. Dessie didn’t disagree, but despite the grandeur of his surroundings, he couldn’t help giving Larry a look; fair play, Larry cracked a grin and conceded that if Jack Cullen had to take a fall, it wouldn’t just be the Great Spirit that’d be in greater harmony with the cosmos: the fucker has been asking for it for years, Larry said.

  They had another drink, and then Larry loaded up the guns into the back of a black Range Rover. Larry had a safe house across on Griffith Avenue and Dessie and Liam’d be safe there, and more to the point, so would the ordnance. The driver had a shaved head and a black leather jacket and wore wraparound shades and didn’t say a word the entire journey, which suited Dessie, who was busy watching Liam for a sign, he wasn’t entirely sure what of but something, and he backed the car into the driveway and got out to open the garage door and reversed inside and shut the doors again and then they loaded the guns into the house through the door that led from the garage into the kitchen.

  Before the driver left, he finally spoke. Pizza on its way, he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. After he’d gone, and they’d heard the sound of the garage doors slam and the Range Rover driving away, Dessie and Liam cracked up laughing, and kept repeating to each other in the squeakiest voices they could manage, Pizza on its way, Pizza on its way, hysterical, Dessie knew, but fuck it, laughing was better than most of the alternatives, and they kept it up until the doorbell rang to herald the arrival of the pizza.

  Dessie told Liam it would be best not to go armed to the Removal—see how the land lies and take it from there. Then when Liam went to the jacks, Dessie loaded a Glock 17 with a ten-round clip and stuck it in his coat. You never know, thought Dessie, you never fucking know.

  At four they were outside the funeral home and what did they see passing by but a horse-drawn hearse, one of the elaborate black metal and glass jobs with the six black horses with plumes of feathers and a rider in a top hat. Dessie looked at Liam and Liam raised his eyebrows and shook his head. They waited and the hearse, which was empty, went on down the road. Not much doubt Paul was connected if he ended up being taken to the church in something like that, either a gangster or a knacker. It dawned on Dessie that he hadn’t been clear about the arrangements: Sharon said she’d deal with things, and then she said—had she actually said Liam had made the calls? Fuck sake. Before he had a chance to ask him, Dessie saw Lamp Comerford on his way, all in black with his flattop gelled up, the suave fucker, and Dessie had his hand on the Glock and Lamp held his hands up, all friends here, big slap on the back hugs all ’round and in they went. Lamp went over and looked at Paul and bowed his head and made like he was saying a prayer, then he blessed himself and turned around and this is what he said:

  Sorry for your trouble lads. He was a good boy. Now, I know you probably heard a lot of talk, but this is what it is: the INLA.

  Dessie had heard a bit of this from Ollie and Dave, how the INLA were getting
stuck into the drugs trade, how they saw the IRA as easy pickings, how they were ruthless and didn’t give a fuck about anyone, well that part wasn’t exactly news. And Lamp said, you seen that hearse roll past, out on the street? That’s for the two INLA lads we done over in Beresford Lane, Dean Cummins and Simon Devlin, they’re going to the church today as well.

  Dessie asked were they the same lads who done Paul, and Lamp Comerford said he didn’t know: he wasn’t sure what time Paul had been killed and had they been to the Guards yet?

  No they hadn’t been to the fucking Guards, Dessie said, realizing as he said it, as Lamp Comerford flashed him a look, that that was the first thing he should have fucking done, that’s what ordinary people would have done, innocent people, people who didn’t know where Larry Knight lived and even if they had, wouldn’t’ve gone up to his house to get a big bag of guns and ammunition. Fuck sake. Dessie rolled his eyes. And Lamp said, maybe you didn’t have time. And Dessie nodded. And Lamp said, chances are they’ll be at the church anyway.

  Of course they fucking would. Because you’ll be there, Lamp, and look who else has just walked in.

  Jack Cullen.

  Dessie recognized him immediately, even though he’d never seen him before. Jack Cullen was a small man, about five four in height, and slightly built, and he’d worn his hair in a Number One cut long before it became fashionable. Jack Cullen wasn’t much for fashion. Even today, going to someone’s removal, he was wearing what he always wore: blue jeans and a blue naval sweater, the ribbed sort with the shoulder patches, round neck with no shirt beneath, and soft black shoes. No jacket or coat. He looked like he could have been standing outside a betting shop, or smoking in the pub doorway. He didn’t look like the notorious fucker he was, like the major IRA gang boss who’d lost count of the people he’d killed and had killed. But then again, maybe he did, Dessie thought: look at the way we’re all looking at him, and what he’s doing, look at how we’re afraid to talk among ourselves or pull any attention away from him. If a stranger walked in here, he’d know by the way we were standing just who was in charge.

  Jack Cullen went over to Paul’s open coffin, and Dessie’d never seen anything like it: Cullen put a hand on Paul’s hands, which were folded across his chest, and burst out crying. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and you could hear the quiet sobbing in the room, and everyone else still and silent. Dessie didn’t know whether he shouldn’t have looked at the ground, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Cullen. GANG BOSS SOBS AT FOOTBALLER’S REMOVAL was the headline Dessie thought of. Not a lot that could be done about it now, he supposed: they could hardly tell Jack Cullen not to come to the funeral.

  Finally, Cullen stopped crying. He blessed himself, wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and then came over to Dessie and held Dessie’s cheeks with the palms of his hands and looked Dessie in the eye and said:

  I loved him like a son. Such a beautiful footballer.

  Dessie nodded, caught up in the emotion himself. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that a priest had come into the room. Lamp held a hand up to the priest, who nodded respectfully. Jack Cullen looked around at Lamp, then back to Dessie and said:

  He never done anything for me. Even tickets, I paid for my own. Do you understand?

  Dessie nodded. Cullen’s eyes were like burning coals.

  Everything that can be done, will be done, if it hasn’t been done already, Cullen said, and kissed Dessie on the forehead. Then he went across and reached up and hugged Liam, and whispered in his ear.

  The room started to fill up then: Paul’s girlfriend and his ex-girlfriend and the Shelbourne United players and other people Dessie didn’t recognize. The priest kicked into a decade of the rosary, and then the lads from the funeral home put the lid on the coffin and they assembled in the yard, ready to walk behind the hearse to the church. There was a squad of lads in white shirts and dark trousers in their late teens and early twenties, some bouncer size, some heroin build, all with mobile phones in their hands, who took it upon themselves to flank the cortege; Lamp had given them their instructions before they set off. And all the while, Dessie was wondering one thing: not about the INLA, or whether he could believe anything Jack Cullen or Lamp Comerford said, or if a Halligan brother was going to walk off the pavement and plug him or Liam or both of them. What Dessie was wondering was, what had Jack Cullen taken so long to whisper in Liam’s ear?

  CHAPTER 18

  The Removal of the Remains is a kind of Catholic spin on the old Irish tradition of the wake, two or three days during which the body is laid out in the home and friends and relations gather to commemorate the dead person in a variety of ways, most of them involving getting drunk. That doesn’t happen very much anymore; instead the body—the remains—is taken from the funeral home to the church, arriving around five o’clock or so. Prayers are said and then people file past the family to pay their respects. And then people go to the pub, or to the house, or both, and get drunk, in part so that the funeral the next morning will unfold in something of an alcoholic mist, and in part because when you stand in the same room as a coffin, particularly the coffin of someone you knew, the natural human response is to get drunk. In this instance, because of Easter, the coffin would stay in the church for two nights, until the funeral on Easter Monday, so the opportunities for continuous, purgative drunkenness were much extended.

  If you weren’t walking behind the hearse, the thing to do was to wait outside in the churchyard until the coffin had arrived and the family were seated. This way you got a good look at the chief mourners, which might seem intrusive but was actually the entire point of the exercise, otherwise funerals would be conducted in private. You needed to see them, and they needed to see you, and that’s the way it was.

  Of course, Paul Delaney’s funeral had the added dimension of taking place virtually under the patronage of Jack Cullen, so the streets boasted a not very discreet Garda presence: there were uniforms and plainclothes detectives and bulky men in overcoats and anoraks who looked like the men who were trailing me. Noel Sweeney was in the churchyard but there was quite a crowd between us, and I thought I saw Dave Donnelly, but when I tried to reach him he had vanished. There were press photographers and TV cameramen outside the churchyard. The Evening Herald was full of the alleged feud between the INLA and the Cullen gang, with photographs on the cover of Jack Cullen and Shay Rollins who, at a swollen twenty stone or so, with a goatee and a curly black mullet and aviator shades, sitting on a balcony in immense floral swimming trunks, looked for all the world like a child molester on his holidays. The atmosphere in the churchyard was uneasy, and when Tommy Owens, with a baseball hat pulled down over his eyes, pushed his way through the crowd and took me aside, I discovered why.

  “They bombed Ray Moran’s house, Ed. About an hour ago. Charlie Newbanks called me. They used grenades and two pipe bombs, the first-floor ceiling collapsed.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Well, he was in there. And he hasn’t come out. His minder was there too. Charlie had just sent someone over to relieve him. He said he didn’t know whether Moran had told anyone about our visit this morning. Said he doubted it, that none of them trusted each other at the moment: Lamp thinks someone’s touting them over the drug shipments, Jack thinks someone’s leaking to the INLA, everyone’s looking over his shoulder. Very tense, very fragile. On the plus side, Charlie doesn’t have to tell anyone we were there, since the only other witness was the minder. And he’s dead too.”

  “Every cloud,” I said.

  “Still and all, I don’t think this is the wisest location for you, Ed.”

  I looked at Tommy, the cap hiding his eyes, talking into his hand like a hood, the pair of us counting our blessings because two men were dead. What was happening to us? I could see the cortege now, edging slowly through the church gates. Shelbourne FC scarves were dotted throughout: red-and-white-striped, they brimmed above the crowd like bloodstained standards, harbingers of worse, much worse to come.


  “Where’s Leo?” I said.

  “He said he’d stick around.”

  “Did he say anything to you about Dessie Delaney?”

  “No. What would he have said?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe how Podge would like him taken out. How even Leo, your new best friend, wouldn’t think it’s right for someone who was ready to testify against the Halligans to walk around as if nothing had happened. Bad example that. And of course, we know Leo’s gone straight now, we saw this morning how he’s left his old life behind.”

  “I didn’t like what happened any more than you did Ed, but don’t make out it was down to me. I didn’t hear you object—”

  “You brought him in. You can’t trust the Halligans.”

  “Is that why you were drinking with George out in St. Bonaventure’s on Holy Thursday? Get down and fucking walk, Ed, if it wasn’t for me you’d still be in the jigs, mooning over that skank Donna Nugent.”

  “All right, all right, I’m sorry. Tommy? Truce?”

  “Truce. You self-righteous bollocks you.”

  “Seriously. What’s your best guess on Leo? Did he look like something was brewing?”

  “The sly fuck always looks like something’s brewing, he’s relaxed like a fucking hawk. At Any Moment, know I mean: he’d gut you. I wouldn’t put it past him, Ed, take Dessie out tonight. Just ’cause we know the Halligans doesn’t make them any more acceptable as human beings. It just means we know them.”