All the Dead Voices

by Declan Hughes

  “Are they going to arrest her?”

  “Not for anything I might tell them.”

  “What will you tell Anne?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It might be better to tell the truth, at last, rather than cover it up again.”

  “It might be,” I said. “You didn’t answer my question. How much does Janet know?”

  “She knows I didn’t kill Brian Fogarty. And she knows I love her hair. And if I like to drink a little too much and look out across the bay every now and again, well, a man can have worse vices.”

  It was a nice speech, but the anguish in his expression made me feel for Janet Ames, a facsimile of his true love, an insubstantial shadow in his ongoing imitation of life.

  I stood up and thanked him for the drink, and shook his hand, and left him to his days and nights.

  As I crossed the street to the car park, I saw a flash of red outside Steve Owen’s building, and for an instant, I thought it was Midge Fogarty come across the bay to make everything all right.

  It wasn’t, of course. I didn’t even have to look at her ankles to know that.

  Dublin—M1 to Belfast, November 9, 1980

  THE COYLE FAMILY

  Gerry Coyle

  Sunday night, God, it’s always a downer, isn’t it? Must be a hangover from school, even in the summer, on holidays, no work Monday morning, doesn’t make a difference, this total kind of pall descends, and that’s it, game over. Don’t know that I’ll even bother with the few jars, feeling pretty wrecked to be honest. Maybe just crash on the sofa, see what’s on the box, cup of tea and then hit the sack. How’s that going to work in the polls? I wonder. Will I get it in the neck from the War Office? I think I might still rise to the occasion if called upon to serve. Especially if she wears that lacy gear she had on last night, goodness gracious me, that would get the hairs on the…

  Claire Coyle

  I hope we do all right by the kids, I really do. I know Gerry always says, relax, they’ll be grand, don’t worry so much, but I know if I didn’t, he would, the only reason he can keep his totally laid-back and ever-so-cool routine going is because he knows I’m on the case. But that’s all right. What you might call teamwork. And fair enough, he says, our parents didn’t worry about us the way we worry about ours. But so what, our parents had a toilet in the backyard and no central heating, that’s no kind of argument. Clothes for the week, I’ll need to put two washes on tonight, and Luke will certainly want a cooked meal, and if Gerry thinks he’s slipping out for a pint at this stage he’s got another…

  Yvonne Coyle

  Sometimes I wish I was in boarding school, where I had some time and space of my own, but the one time I mentioned it to Mum she looked so upset I had to spend ages backtracking saying I was just wondering whether it would be better for studies and she said Yvonne your grades are all A-plus what are you aiming for and I know we can’t afford it but that’s not the point, actually, boarding school is not the point, the point is Mum is my mum and not my best friend and every time we go shopping that’s how she wants it to be, I’m supposed to tell her about boys and giggle and it’s all SO EMBARRASSING and I’m going to get a lock for my room so I can have a little privacy…

  Luke Coyle

  Thunderbird 2 would be the only one that could take you to school, Thunderbird 5 is a space station so that’s out and Thunderbird 3 is a space rocket and so is Thunderbird 1 so Thunderbird 2 it’s like a jump jet but we would need a longer garden, not necessarily all those palm trees, that’s because Tracy Island is in Hawaii, and you wouldn’t need Thunderbird 4 because that’s a submarine and you don’t need to go underwater to get to school, so the pod would have some extra space, you could probably fit your schoolbag and your lunch in there, actually, you could fit all your lunches for the week if Mum did them up in advance, that might suit her actually, thoughtful, the kind of thing she’s always saying we don’t think of, and you could probably park Thunderbird 2 with the teachers’ cars I wonder if I got a paper round could we afford to buy some of the neighbors’ garden so Thunderbird 2 would have enough room…

  South Armagh, November 9, 1980

  Of course, even though it was only afterward that Red fully understood what had happened, he acknowledged that it had actually been his blunder. He had spotted the vehicle approaching, and alerted Ice, but cautioned him to wait until he had made sure the registration was correct. And Ice said, ah for fuck’s sake, what are the chances of two Jags identical in color and model happening along at the same time? But Ice waited for Red to give the word. And Red was anxious he’d wait too long, and they’d miss the target, so he went early; he gave the word before he saw the reg, and then it was too late ever to see the reg, but as it turned out, not too late to know it hadn’t been the reg plate of the judge’s car. After the fire and the smoke, and the debris and body parts scattered about the fields, amid the smell of sulfur and burning flesh, and the savage whooping and hollering of Ice, Red stared out across the fields, the heartbreakingly beautiful hills and fields of South Armagh. Was it then he understood that only great and lasting dishonor and shame would be gained if they won the land back by this kind of slaughter? Was it then, or seconds later, as the sirens howled their strident requiem, when a burgundy Jaguar Mark 2 3.8 approached the scene of the atrocity in slow motion, or so it seemed to Red, but of course it had slowed down out of caution, and shock, and human sympathy; Red seemed to view it through a gauze, as if it were a ghost car and the whole sorry spectacle a nightmare, which of course was what it had become, a nightmare from which Red would spend the rest of his life trying to awake.

  Ooops! said Ice, laughing, and he had to pull a gun on Red to get his hands away from his neck. Fuck’s sake. You had to let off steam every now and then. Hadn’t Red ever heard of gallows humor? It was all very regrettable, innocent family and so on. But none of this was Ice’s fault. This was the fault of those who made it necessary for Ice and his comrades to wage war. Ice had a clear conscience, and he always would have.

  CHAPTER 30

  I was sitting in my office with Tommy Owens and Leo Halligan, who were regaling me with tales of what they’d got up to once they were assured of my safety, that is to say, once they’d heard that Jack Cullen had been found beaten to death and dumped in Beresford Lane, right where at least some of this began. Mainly, it appeared they had been drinking, and they proposed to continue doing this in a variety of pubs all over town, and suggested I accompany them on their crawl. I said I’d like to do this very much, but I felt obliged to attend the Independence Bridge opening ceremony. I was welcome to it, they said, they were going to watch it on telly in whichever pub they happened to land in, and I knew how to find them when I was feeling thirsty, and off they went, although not before Leo had received a personal assurance that George was in the clear on the Brian Fogarty murder. I never much liked ruling George Halligan out of any shenanigans whatsoever, but I’d never get this one to stick; besides, he had lung cancer.

  I gave Leo my condolences, and he looked puzzled, and I explained, and he laughed for a long time, and then he explained. George has a mail-order bride from Russia, very high maintenance, with a populous entourage of friends and acquaintances who visit rarely, but when they do, stay for weeks on end. George found last year’s visit extremely trying on the nerves, so this year he arranged to have terminal cancer in advance with the assistance of a compliant doctor he employs and a generous contribution to St. Bonaventure’s upkeep. Turned out George had bronchitis anyway, so that helped the subterfuge along nicely. A month on his deathbed had seen all the Russians off, and reduced his wife to a nervous wreck, as she’s not quite legal and not quite a beneficiary if George were ever to get, for example, terminal cancer. So now he’s ready to stage a remarkable recovery, and dictate a few new terms in his domestic arrangements.

  I walked them down to the street, and while they turned up toward Merrion Square, I headed down to the quays, saluting the smoking mothers as I
went, an exercise in futility mostly, as they were a miserable bunch of hard-faced whingers at the best of times, and surely having a baby was the best of times and you could have expected a little better, but no matter, that, too, was Dublin for you.

  The quays were closed to traffic and thronged with people—old and young, families and gangs of youths, drunk and sober, friendly and menacing, surging about or waiting patiently, all high in anticipation of the official launch of the new beacon in the sky, Independence Bridge. There were seated areas back as far as the Talbot Memorial Bridge, with screens on the streets relaying RTE television pictures of the action. Past Sir John Rogerson’s Quay, you needed a VIP pass, which I had, of course, and once the security man on duty saw that I had no bag, he let me through without a body search. That was worth remembering. Quite a heavy Garda presence, but no body search.

  The crowd was a little smarter here, a little more upscale. I recognized celebrities, or pseudo celebrities, people off the telly; I even nodded to a couple, to my embarrassment, thinking I knew them, but I’m sure they were used to that, taking the misplaced intimacy as no more than their due. There was traditional Irish music playing, and more seating along the quays as you got closer and closer to the bridge. My VIP pass, however, was for the top grade of VIP. Mine put you on the bridge itself with all the very important people indeed.

  The structure was built in the shape of an H, with two towers of glass and steel on the corner of Sir John Rogerson’s and Britain quays and on the corresponding pitch across the river on North Wall Quay. Two hundred meters tall, they dwarfed everything around. Halfway up, the bridge formed the central bar of the H. I had thought it looked impressive a week ago; now, probably because of what I knew about the man behind it, I wondered whether it was vainglorious and ugly, a vaulting symbol of everything that was wrong with our great little country. I couldn’t decide, and I thought it was better if I didn’t: the case had left me weary of soul as well as of body, and judgment was not my strongest suit; I’d’ve no doubt been better off taking to my bed tonight, but something told me I had to be here.

  I showed my laminate for the last time at the entrance to the towers—again, no body search—and waited in a large, fully catered reception area overlooking the river with a group that included two government ministers, a prizewinning author and a humanitarian rock star. Everyone who was anyone was here, it seemed. And I was here too. The elevator came, but before I could get on it, I was tapped on the shoulder. Donna Nugent was beckoning me aside, her face glowing with excitement, and walking me around the corner to a private room that overlooked the river also, a private room with just one occupant.

  Bobby Doyle was beaming at me, and Donna Nugent was beaming at me, and I began to worry that if I wasn’t careful, I might break out beaming myself.

  “Well, isn’t this cozy? The last time we three met, we were in church, but that didn’t go as well as expected, did it?” I said.

  Donna made her face go grave and serious. It appeared she could do this whenever she felt the need, and whatever she was feeling, as long as it was to the greater good of Bobby Doyle.

  “Ed, I’m sorry, I know I said some awful things to you today, and I…I want to apologize. I didn’t mean them, I…what you go through, not everyone could do, and it’s incredibly brave, it’s…whatever it is, it’s the opposite of failure.”

  She came across and hugged me, and then stood back, and I almost felt as if she had been completely sincere, and maybe by her lights, she almost had been, and I was almost moved. Bobby nodded contentedly, as if that was a satisfactory prelude, and then he moved in for the opera’s first act.

  “Ed, I’ll keep it simple. Jack Cullen came out to Clondalkin today and personally took Shay Rollins out. I’m not sorry he did that: Rollins was as much of a cancer in his own community as Jack Cullen was in his. That’s why there was something right and fitting about the way Jack Cullen was killed. Did you hear? His own people rose up against him.”

  “Right and fitting? Rose up? He was stamped to death in a pub by a bunch of savages. Have you lost your compass entirely?” I said.

  Bobby Doyle’s eyes narrowed, and he exhaled audibly, as if to remind me that his patience was finite.

  “His death brings it full circle, for me, for the movement, for the entire country. And the fact that it was his own people. That’s what gives me renewed hope. It’ll send a message out to the last of the hard men: the old days are done. The National Drug Unit have leaked that he was a tout as well, so that’s his reputation tarnished for good. I wish it could have been a clean kill. I almost wish I could have done it myself. But I have too many people watching me. I particularly regret young Delaney’s death. If you know the boy’s people, maybe you might send them to me.”

  I nodded. Sure. I could do that. I could send Paul’s people to Bobby Doyle. Why not? They might have quite a message for him.

  “Come on, let’s go up to the bridge, you won’t believe the view up there. And don’t worry Ed, once the speeches are made, there’ll be plenty of booze,” Donna said.

  “That’s great, Donna,” I said. “I just, my head is pounding, just going to get five minutes’ fresh air.”

  “All right. Don’t forget your laminate! See you up there.”

  “See you up there, Ed,” Bobby Doyle said.

  The last I saw of him, ex-IRA killer Bobby Doyle was giving the Taoiseach of Ireland a fist bump as they waited for the elevator.

  See you up there! Don’t forget your laminate! Yes indeed.

  I left the tower and called Dessie Delaney.

  “Ed Loy? Where the fuck have you been?”

  “I’ve been working. Where are you, Dessie?”

  “I’m on the quays here, having a look at the bridge. Around the Custom House.”

  “All right. Do you want a seat up in the bridge itself? I have a VIP pass.”

  “I don’t think they’ll let me through, Ed, on account of what I’m carrying.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Meet me at the end of City Quay, as soon as you can.”

  The crowds had gotten denser now, and dusk was slowly falling, and it took me a while to pick Dessie out of the crowd. He was respectably dressed, in collar and tie, and he wasn’t drunk, but there was a wild, despairing, reckless glint in his eye. I greeted him, and we embraced, and I told him how sorry I was about Paul.

  “You look well, Dessie,” I lied. “How are you?”

  “I’m not good, Ed,” he said. “I feel like I’ve been denied my chance to make things right. Jack Cullen killed Rollins, the INLA leader who killed Paul, or who had him killed. And then all Jack’s thugs turned on him. It’s just chaos, like Paul’s death was completely meaningless. And it turned out Paul was dealing for Jack all along, and that Liam was in on it, Ed. I mean, there’s nowhere to turn. There’s no pure act that can make his death right, that’s what I wanted, to say, you’re the one who done it, or, you’re the one who ordered it: I will take you out. Even if I go down myself.”

  I looked at the pain in Dessie’s eyes. I looked back at Independence Bridge. I could hear “The Patriot Game” drifting across on the air. I thought of Bobby Doyle, and of the Coyle family, and I thought I knew how to make things right.

  “I can give you who ordered it,” I said. “Or at least, who was running Shay Rollins. But there’s no way back from it, Dessie, you wouldn’t walk away.”

  Dessie’s eyes flared in excitement, and he gripped my wrists.

  “I don’t want to walk away. I’m finished, Ed. I can’t go back to Greece, can’t work with Liam again, can’t look at the cunt, running smack for Jack Cullen, he’s lucky to be alive and I’m telling you, I had to walk out of the pub today, Paul’s funeral and I had to walk out before I blew my other brother’s head off.”

  “What about Sharon? And the kids.”

  “The stake in Delaney’s is in her name. And she can look after herself. And…”

  His eyes misted over for a second, and I knew at once wh
at he was thinking of, the future his kids would have that he would never see, and in an instant I was at one with Doyle and Cullen and the rest of the brave Irish patriots and gangsters, sending men out on glorious missions from which they had no chance of return. I wanted Bobby Doyle to die, and he deserved to die, and what a great message that would send out, to the hard men and the others, to everyone who beat the Patriot Drum and played the Patriot Game. But I wasn’t one of them, and I wasn’t going to become one of them. I shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, Dessie, I can’t do it.”

  Dessie’s face fell.

  “Ed, please. I’m entitled—”

  “Fuck it, you’re not. Your kids are entitled, Dessie, entitled to their da. I’m not having you on my conscience. I’m sorry, I should never have called you. I was wrong. Just…just go out and get drunk. That’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “And what do I do in the morning?”

  “Go back to your wife and kids. Go home, Dessie. Forget about all this. Leave the dead well enough alone.”

  Dessie held on to my wrists, pleading with me to reconsider, but I wouldn’t budge, and freed my hands, and walked away. He shouted after me, and then I couldn’t hear him shouting. My head was astray, and I wanted to send it further. The prelude from Parsifal echoed around my head. Drunks were filling up the streets. I would soon be one of them. I walked down the quays as the lights began to flash, and the cheering began, and the fireworks started to explode overhead. I was nearly at Tara Street when I got a call from Anne Fogarty.

  “Hey, we’re on the quays, do you want to meet up? Only the girls are a bit bored, so I think we’re going to duck out and have a pizza or something. We’re just at…hey, I think I can see you, across from Tara Street station?”

  “No, I…sorry Anne, you’re breaking up,” I said, and ducked into the pub on the corner. A pizza. Children. Jesus fuck. I ordered a pint and a Jameson, and I stood in the crowded bar with a lot of men who all looked like they were hiding from something. That was the spirit. That was exactly the company I needed. On the television, the Taoiseach was making a speech, and the camera flashed on Bobby Doyle, who was looking modest, and there was a photo montage of the faces of the rebel leaders from the 1916 Rising, and the Taoiseach was talking about pride in our history and traditions, and then I felt a tug at my sleeve that nearly made me spill my pint, and I swung around, and there was Ciara, Anne Fogarty’s youngest daughter, and I guess the way I turned must have scared her, and the state of my face must have scared her even more, because the smile froze on her little face, and her eyes began to bubble, and then Anne Fogarty, who stood behind her, leant a hand down and cupped her cheek and brought her child to her, safe within her embrace. It was a gesture so eloquent of love and tender care, and I recalled the first person I had seen use it, way back when I was the child in need of it, and I had to turn away.