A Carra King

by John Brady

  The driver of the Nissan was moving about.

  “Stay down!” Malone shouted. “We’re Guards. And turn off the engine!”

  A siren in the distance was joined by a second.

  “He’s down,” said Malone. “I think I heard the gun falling onto the road.”

  Minogue leaned against the Nissan. The driver was saying something.

  “Shut up, will you!”

  Malone’s head was almost on the roadway by the tire.

  “I see him,” he said to Minogue.

  “And I can see the gun. My one.”

  Malone scampered to the driver’s door of the Nissan. He yanked it open, pulled at the driver, shoved him across the road.

  “Over there — go on, the back of the Garda car!”

  Minogue watched Malone stand, the pistol at arm’s length, the slow zigzag walk he had seen parodied too often for it to be funny. Malone called out as he advanced. Minogue stood. The pain in his knee was a slicing ache now. His eyes wavered still. He rested his hand on the bonnet of the Nissan until the dizziness passed. He wondered if his colleague had noted the thick lines creeping away from the shadows under Damian Little.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Orla McKeon’s father looked younger than last year when Minogue had bumped into him on O’Connell Bridge. Orla had come back from six months in Italy. She and Iseult were going to get a studio together at that stage.

  The hair was his own, that Minogue was sure of, but was it tinted or dyed? Why so long at fifty-something anyway. Transplants, maybe. Iseult had said that Orla found out her father was having an affair. He had moved from insurance some years ago and had done well in pet food for some reason.

  “Great day for being out,” said Tom McKeon.

  Minogue took a step toward him. His knee was just as stiff today, but the pain had gone down to an ache, which he sometimes was able to ignore. The boat breasted the wake of a smaller craft making for Dun Laoghaire Harbour. Minogue had quickly learned to keep his knees bent. His hair whipped back again. He narrowed his eyes.

  “Pardon?”

  “Great day,” said McKeon. “Evening, I should say.”

  Minogue nodded. He looked back at the churning water behind the engine. A hundred and fifty horsepower? Half as much again as his Citroen? The water seemed to stand still by the railing, drawn up in a jagged crest that cast off drops and streams at the edges. Spume, that was the word. The engine turned slightly and Minogue looked back. Tom McKeon had the bow directly on the rocks by Dalkey Island ahead. There were lights on by Bulloch Harbour, but Minogue was drawn again to the pink and mustard sky behind the Three Rock Mountain. He felt a cold cylinder against his knuckles.

  “Go on,” said McKeon.

  Budweiser. Would he get sick on it with the boat hopping on the waves?

  “Thanks.”

  He sat down next to McKeon.

  “Cold are you?”

  “Ah, I’m all right.”

  “You look cold. Take that there.”

  Minogue picked up a nylon jacket with a woolly inside. There was neon green somewhere in the middle of the back, a fancy logo with a little wave in the middle. Drown in style. McKeon held his can while Minogue got into the jacket. He missed threading the zip several times. He steadied himself against the railing.

  Iseult arrived on deck in an enormous T-shirt and a pair of football shorts. The breeze took wisps of her hair away from the hair band. Orla closed the door behind her.

  “Your towel,” he said. She had goose bumps already. There was an odd light in her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Your towel. You’ll catch your death of cold.”

  “I’m going in the water, Da.”

  Tom McKeon was looking up at him with a mischievous look. Minogue wanted to drag him out of his captain’s chair and pitch him into the sea.

  “Here,” said McKeon. “Go on.”

  Minogue didn’t open the can. He stepped down to where Orla and Iseult huddled.

  “Where’s your life jacket then?”

  “Do you want one?” Orla asked.

  “Of course she does,” Minogue said. “She’ll go to the bottom like a stone. The size of her.”

  “Ah, Da! If I thought you were going to start this, I could have brought Ma.”

  “Here, Matt,” came McKeon’s voice above. “Come on up and take the helm.”

  He didn’t want to take any bloody helm. Jack Tar, climb the rigging; pirates ahoy.

  “Come on up! We’re headed through Dalkey Sound out into the bay.”

  McKeon showed him the throttle, how to get to neutral, how not to mash the gears to porridge.

  “Good man, yes, sit there. I have a few things to get.”

  “What, martinis?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Minogue slowed the boat. It was all too easy, wasn’t it? The moving shore, the sky cast up again from the water out in the bay took over his thoughts. How often he had walked there in the woods and now he was out here looking back to shore for signs of life.

  “Aim to that side of him, Matt.”

  There was grey in the woods under Dalkey Hill already. The bay opened before him, silver and brown. He felt his chest easing, the glow, and then the rush of gladness. Fool I’ve been he thought, never to have had a boat. Should have been a pet-food tycoon like Tom McKeon. He glanced over. McKeon smiled.

  “Go on,” he said. “Open it. It’ll taste a lot better.”

  It did. He drank half the can in one go. He could have finished it, too. McKeon pointed to Bray Head.

  “Aim for there.”

  Not a bad fella at all, McKeon. So what if he was trickacting with someone, but — Iseult’s laugh had a hollow sound to it. Orla whispered something to her. Iseult nodded. Minogue eyed her.

  “Suits you, Da,” she called out.

  “Been to the States, er, Matt?” McKeon asked.

  “No.”

  “Your lad is there, isn’t he?”

  “He is.”

  McKeon was about to say something but he frowned, and then smiled and waved his arm.

  “Where else in the world would you have this,” he said. “Isn’t it only gorgeous?”

  Minogue nodded. McKeon finished his can. He studied it carefully before tossing it below. He covered a belch with the back of his hand and then pulled hard on the rail. A plane was coming in over the Irish Sea.

  “But you can be in touch anywhere,” said McKeon. Minogue frowned. McKeon nodded toward a cell phone on the seat below.

  “A fella in that plane there could phone me. Did you know that?”

  Minogue nodded.

  “Yous all have them now, don’t you?”

  “We’ve come to rely on them.”

  McKeon winked.

  “All digital and all. So’s ye won’t be listened in on. It was in the paper the other day.”

  He looked over at the Inspector.

  “Along with the whole ball of wax with O’Riordan and them. The manager, the whole Larry Smith thing. Well, Jases, talk about scandal. You’re a celebrity now, ha ha, along with herself.”

  McKeon winked.

  “The Holy Family. Ha ha. Catchy though, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, tell me something — if you don’t mind me asking. Did the Guards know about this Little, the one who — well, you know what I’m saying.”

  Minogue felt McKeon’s eyes on him, but he kept his gaze on the waves.

  “No.”

  “Ah sure, what odds,” said McKeon. “There’s no place like home.”

  “Any way we can slip a life jacket on you-know-who there, Tom?”

  McKeon looked over his shoulder at their daughters.

  “Oh God, aye. Not sure it’d fit your one, but.”

  “Can we try?”

  “What are you worrying about? They’ll float. They’re witches, sure.”

  McKeon stepped down to the lower deck and began opening hatches
. He pulled out ropes, plastic boxes. Minogue looked up over Shankill. There were people on the crest of Katty Gallagher. The mountains had gone dark. He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes to here. How long did they plan to be in the water?

  He looked back at McKeon. Gone. His head reappeared, turned up to look at Minogue.

  “Slow it down, we’re there.”

  “There where?”

  McKeon was beside him then.

  “Thanks. Nice going there. Are you warmed-up now?”

  Minogue eyed the two shivering women. Orla belly-laughed about something.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I drop anchor, they jump in and I play Jeeves with the gargle. For them, like.”

  “Gargle, for Iseult?”

  “Oh God no — under very strict orders there. It’s nonalcoholic stuff. Pretend champagne.”

  He watched McKeon let an anchor over the side of the bow.

  “Is Orla a good swimmer?”

  “The best entirely.”

  “Yourself, too?”

  “Middling to good.” McKeon looked up and winked.

  He searched McKeon’s face. The eyes on him. He’d had a few jars before getting into the boat in the first place. The rope was slack. McKeon pulled it tight and tied it.

  “Now. We’re going nowhere.”

  The boat gently wheeling, the rub of the rope as the anchor drew hard took Minogue’s attention. Iseult shrieked with laughter. There were figures on the shore by Killiney, a dog running along the beach.

  “Well, girls,” McKeon called out. “Like they say, ‘This is your life.’”

  Iseult’s smile faded. She looked out at the pale, oily water. Minogue took another mouthful of beer. Kathleen had persuaded Iseult that there was bacteria and rubbish by the beach that could give her an infection. Neither Kathleen nor Matt Minogue had expected Iseult to come up with fifty thousand quid’s worth of boat as a solution, however. No pollution away from the beach, was Iseult’s contention.

  “This should be good,” said McKeon.

  Orla had turned serious, too. She cupped water in her hand and rubbed her face. The boat rocked gently.

  “Lezzers,” said McKeon behind his hand. “What do you think?”

  He looked over when Minogue didn’t answer.

  “Only joking.”

  Iseult looked up at her father. She nodded toward the cabin.

  “Go ahead there, Matt,” said McKeon.

  He perched on the edge of a seat. Iseult loomed large in the doorway.

  “Da. I want you to do something. I couldn’t ask you back in Dun Laoghaire.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Won’t do what?”

  “Whatever it is. All I want is a bit of a jaunt and go home. You’re cracked.”

  “Come on. Don’t let me down.”

  Minogue stared out at the horizon falling and rising in the window.

  “Tell Orla’s father to come in here. Cover up the windows for five or ten minutes. That’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to go in the water in me birthday suit.”

  Minogue covered his face with his left hand.

  “Da! Da — please! Look up there. You can see the trees by Tully. And the mountains . . .”

  “You crackpot,” he muttered. “I knew each and every one of those places long before you were even born.”

  “Yes, I know. So?”

  “Who’s going to be out there keeping an eye on you and dragging you out of the water then?”

  “You will. I don’t mind you.”

  “Orla? Is she in on this — Wiccan thing too?”

  “It’s not Wiccan — ”

  “Her father has ye as lesbians.”

  “Ah, he’s a fucking waster. Orla could hit him with a bloody two by four as soon as look at him. She hates him. Come on. Orla says she doesn’t mind you.”

  “What if I mind?”

  “But you’ve seen lots of . . . well, whatever. She says it’s okay. That’s the main thing.”

  Minogue sat back and rubbed at his eyes. The beer had already started clawing at his bladder.

  “See?” she went on. “All the stories you told me, that’s part of it.”

  “What are you talking about.”

  “Tully, a sanctuary, for people sort of on the run?”

  “Well there’s a bit more to it than that, now.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I was just trying to make those hikes a bit interesting for you and Daithi.”

  “The druids looking out from under the trees at us?”

  “A definite whopper. Never saw even the one. Sorry.”

  “But this gets to be true, Da — you know what I mean, now. Come on.”

  “What does this have to do with us out here in the middle of the Irish Sea? Your mother is worried that you’re gone mental, you know. A family thing — ah, I shouldn’t be telling you.”

  “Did he give you a drink yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ask him for another one.”

  “I don’t want one. Off him anyway. He’s a nice enough fella, but.”

  “Ah, he’s a prick. He has money off in the Bahamas or somewhere, Orla says. Pays for his bit’s apartment in Rathgar. Everybody knows. Orla’s ma shops all the time and goes to spas in Germany. I’ll bet you he brings his bit out in the boat here. Go on, get another drink. Let him blather away. He likes to talk. He thinks you’re cool, you know. Dying to ask you questions — the job, you know?”

  “You know I don’t want the job at home Iseult, come on now.”

  “Just make sure the curtain things are pulled.”

  “Look — ”

  “Bring him down here and talk the face off him, Da — please! It’s for Céline — ”

  “Céline who?”

  “The baby. If it’s a girl like. Even if it’s a boy, sure . . .”

  “You never told me this.”

  “Bring him down, Da. Please!”

  She was out the door before Minogue could marshal his arguments. He forgot the low door. He stepped out with his jaw set, the pain over his forehead half-blinding him.

  “Tom. Are you there?”

  “I am.”

  He had opened another can of beer. Minogue kept rubbing at his head. The two women watched him. Lock him in the toilet — the head — maybe; mutiny.

  “Tom, can you come down for a word, please?”

  McKeon’s smile told the Inspector he knew something was up.

  “Tom. Could you maybe show me the cabin and how things work in there?”

  “Ah, go way. The jacks is up the front. It’s called the head. Go on with you and look around yourself.”

  Minogue fixed him with a stare. Orla sniggered and turned away.

  “The names of the different things, Tom? Maps and that . . .? I’ve never . . .”

  “Is this about the two mermaids wanting to do their ceremony in the nip?”

  Minogue glared at Iseult. She shrugged. It could have been Orla.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, yes.”

  “You want me to show how to draw the curtains is it?”

  “I think I can manage that part.”

  “Another one of those Buds, Matt?”

  Minogue crouched this time. McKeon Velcroed the curtains carefully. The yellow light overhead was weak. Minogue listened to the feet outside, felt the boat rock with the steps.

  “As if I gave a shite, Matt. You know what I’m saying?”

  Minogue nodded. The pain in his forehead was taking a long time to ease.

  “Come on now. You’d have to see the funny side of it, wouldn’t you?”

  McKeon took his can and popped it.

  “Come on now Matt, relax. Let them do what they want. Sure they’re only observing their religion. That’s in the constitution, isn’t it?”

  Minogue liked this second can of beer more than the first. McKeon eyed him.

  “Gas, isn’t it?
Two oul geezers locked inside the cabin.”

  “It better not be locked.”

  “Only joking. But look at us, out in Killiney Bay, with their two so-called grown-up daughters — ”

  The yelp and the sudden tug on the boat had Minogue up even before he heard the two splashes. He was on the deck in time to see Iseult surface. Her hair was all over the water. He tried not to look at the huge white belly glowing, the enormous nipples. A whale, is right.

  “God, it’s bloody cold!!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Go on back, Da! I’m fine.”

  He looked at the water for shark fins, and turned to the sky. Every pastel colour was there, depthless, a seamless move to the sky, lilac, lemon — “Go on, Da! We’re fine!”

  He backed down into the cabin. McKeon beamed, and raised his can.

  “A toast!”

  Minogue slid in under the tabletop. The colours would be changed completely in another minute. He’d search for the first star out toward Wales.

  “To our mad families, Matt! To the mad country that made us!”

  Minogue studied the maudlin intensity in McKeon’s face. Banish misfortune and all that? Everything counts and nothing matters, yes. What if this lúdramán was right. The Irish, he thought: for all our proprieties, our pragmatism, our loyalties here, we cheer the rebel hand.

  “Come on now,” McKeon said. “The world’s gone mad — you have to admit. There’s two highly educated girls, all right, women — out there — both of them the blackest, bloody pagans. One of them won’t listen to anything except GOD — here do you know them?”

  “‘Daddy’s Girl’?”

  McKeon cackled.

  “My God, you do! Here we are, two gamógs up in dirty Dublin, doing our bit for some pagan ceremony or other! Madness . . .! Come on now — put up your glass, your tin, there! Get rid of that long face there.”

  Minogue heard laughter outside, splashes. So there were mermaids after all. He’d look out from his perch at Tully Cross some evening searching for them in the water. He took a longer swig from the can.

  “Mad,” McKeon whispered. His eyes had gone moist in the dim light.

  Minogue didn’t want to feel sorry for him. He pulled the curtain aside.