by Matt Hayward
“When are they meant to be here?” Henry asked.
“Any minute now. Going to try for one more pint before they do.”
Henry laughed. “You always have to go one more, don't you? I'll get it. Stay here.”
Michael breathed a sigh of relief as Henry went to the bar. He hoped that would happen. He hadn't had money since he retired from bare-knuckle boxing eleven years ago. That night, the Connollys, the self-proclaimed Kings of Gypsies, had sabotaged Michael's fight against Brady Connolly when they saw their fighter losing. They'd turned off their car engines, plunging The Ring into total darkness and chaos.
Michael knew that Brady had been drunk off his ass that night. Everyone did. Still, a lot of money had been placed on that fight, and the Connollys couldn't afford to lose. In the dark, accusations were screamed, punches were thrown, and a now legendary brawl exploded between the Connollys and the Rourkes.
Brady had been stabbed in the back of the neck with a broken bottle and tramped underfoot. And even though a decade had passed, the finger still got pointed in Michael's direction. But Michael hadn't done it. On his life, he'd never killed a man.
Michael had retired from the scene after that. But even though the Connollys were enemies of the Rourke's, he'd never wished any of them dead. The fights were just easy money to him, that's all. And Michael the Mountain Rourke was a safe bet when it came time to pull the money out. The odds were on his side every time.
The money had been great, and the traveller families, sometimes even the settled families, would look forward to the fights like a professional boxing season once those VHS tapes got around. Michael had even seen a woman wearing a homemade Up The Mountain! t-shirt once on Grafton Street. That'd been surreal.
“Here. Cheers.”
Henry sat with a grunt and raised his pint. Michael did the same, draining it to halfway in a couple of mouthfuls. The booze went down far easier than he expected it to, or wanted it to, in the morning.
“Shit,” Henry said, looking out the window. “Blue van just pulled up. Looks like… Yeah, it's Willie The Lookout. Think he has Tommy Fenton with him. Time wasn't too nice to either of them, eh?”
Willie The Lookout, real name William Byrne, had been a main creator of The Ring. The land it was on belonged to his family, and he'd leased it out for a handsome sum anytime it needed using by the boxers. Tommy Fenton, his right-hand man, served as a non-biased referee for all matches, and had become legendary in his own right. Rumor had it he'd once stopped Johnny The Fox from ripping off Ken Leary's ear back in '81.
Fishing a crumpled carton of cigarettes from his jeans, Michael lit one, watching the smoke curl to the ceiling. The jukebox had switched to Rory Gallagher now. Taking a deep breath, Michael waited for Willie and Tommy to enter.
“They see us,” Henry said, not taking his eyes from the window. “Coming in now.”
The bell chimed over the door of the pub, and in walked Willie The Lookout and Tommy Fenton, both sporting dark green raincoats that glistened from the drizzle. When Michael had first met Willie back in 1990, Willie had been a large man. Now he was an absolute gargantuan shit-house. It looked as if he was trying to smuggle a bag of footballs beneath his coat. He caught Michael's eye and nodded, then made his way over. Tommy Fenton trailed behind like a loyal puppy, his beady eyes scanning the pub.
“Michael,” Willie said. He smiled, flashing nicotine-stained teeth. “It's honest-to-god good to see ye again. You know how long I've been waiting for you to come to your senses and get back into bangin' a few heads? Fuckin' ages, man. Wasn't I only saying it to you, Tommy, last week, and then who calls me? Michael the feckin' Mountain Rourke.”
Michael took a deep drag of his cigarette and held it in his lungs. “So, the Connollys are happy enough with the rules, Willie?”
“Daylight fight, no chance of them knocking out the sun, now is there? Wouldn't have come if they didn't agree. The Connollys can't wait for a match. Should have heard them when I called, boy. Even the big man, Georgie. He wants it worst of all. Says you're a dead man walkin'.”
“Georgie Connolly's going to come?”
“To see one of his pups get a rematch against you? He'd walk from Donegal if he had to.”
Georgie Wolfman Connolly was the self-titled King of the Gypsies. He'd never lost a fight in his life, or so the story goes.
Brady Connolly had been the man's youngest, and by far the best fighter. The three others, Derry, Patrick and Sean, were boxers, too, and each was as mean as a battered bulldog.
“Georgie must be in his sixties now,” Michael said.
Michael had never actually seen The King himself, and the idea of seeing him triggered an old thrill deep down in the part of himself he fought to leave behind. But try as he might, a pull to this lifestyle existed that he never would admit. Like attracts like, he supposed. He never could admit that to Angie.
One time, last year, when he heard that Ken Leary had been granted a rematch against Johnny The Fox, he'd tried telling Angie about it, because the idea of seeing that fight had made his heart race. Fortunately, he had some self-control. The words had stuck in his throat like a brick, and that's where they'd stayed. Angie couldn't know about that part of his past. She would look at him and see a monster.
Angie was a South Dublin girl, a college graduate, and a hard worker. The Michael that she got to know laid bricks on the weekdays and enjoyed playing the guitar on the weekends. He was quiet, reserved, and liked to read crime novels to her while she curled up on the sofa next to him in their small City center apartment.
To her, Michael Rourke wasn't a fighter.
He'd told her that he came from a family of travellers, but at the age of eighteen he'd gotten a series of part-time jobs and scraped his way through school. The latter part was true. He had, in fact, paid his own way through school. The rest had been a lie. It wasn't any part-time job that had earned him his money, and it wasn't any small amount, either. Michael had been fighting since childhood, right up to that final fight with Brady Connolly in 1985. That had been ten years ago.
The money he'd earned, he'd mostly pissed away. He drank with Henry and tried to wash the taste of guilt out of his mouth. But of course, that hadn't worked. Renting a room in the city center, he'd landed a job on a construction site. He'd been straight ever since.
But now, Angie was pregnant, and they needed the money. Bad.
For just the two of them, they earned enough to get by, but that wouldn't last with a baby on the way. Michael wasn't prepared to ask for help from his family. He didn't want them involved in this. He was going to give his child what he could, by himself. He was going to make sure that kid never had to see the inside of a damn mobile home. Not if he could help it.
The fighting had been the only thing he'd ever kept from Angie.
“Georgie is definitely coming,” Willie said. “Dying to see you go down, lad. Sure, he's touching seventy now, but I'm telling ya, he wants to see your blood spilled, Michael boy. And he's setting up ringside.”
Michael swallowed. His mouth had gone very dry. “How many are we expecting?”
“I'd say nearly fifty,” Tommy chimed in. His voice was wheezy and high, and in any other context, it would have been comical. His long, stubbly face jittered as he spoke. “Not sending word out to anyone. This one's personal, Micky. You know that.”
“I do.” Michael stubbed out his cigarette on the table and stood. He nodded for Henry to do the same. “Well, let's go then.”
Outside, the rain beat down, sounding like white noise. It had picked up heavily in the last few minutes, splashing off of windowsills and rolling down the gutters. The overcast sky hung bloated overhead, and the red cobbled road of Grafton Street was slick with water. It reminded Michael of blood. Lighting another cigarette, he made his way over to his Triumph motorcycle, the others following behind. His heart kicked at his chest and he felt lightheaded. This was really going to happen, He thought.
Willie's blue van wa
s parked next to his bike, and Tommy climbed into the passenger seat while mumbling something about the weather. Willie unlocked the driver-side door, turning to Michael before getting in. “So you're going to follow behind us, Micky, yeah?”
“Yup.”
“Don't worry, I'll have me lights on full the whole time.”
Tommy spluttered a laugh from inside the cab. Michael didn't reply.
“Touching eleven now, so it is. We'll be there by a half hour or so, so plenty of daylight left for ye. Let's hope you've been getting some training in. Must be hard with the baby on the way and all.”
Michael's blood turned to ice. “How'd you know about the baby? What do you mean a half-hour? We're going to The Ring, right? That's at least over an hour from here.”
“Really, Micky? You don't think we've been keeping tabs on ye? Course we have. Angie's a good lookin' young one, so she is. So let's hope you make it back to her with some money for that little baby now. But listen, Micky.” Willie's fat lips curled into a smile. “You're one of us and you know it. Always will be. This isn't something you just walk away from. And there's been a change of plans. Georgie wants it up Montpelier Hill.”
“Montpelier?” Michael shook his head. “You mean at the Hell Fire Club?”
“It's their stompin' ground, Micky. Their home, their rules.” With that, Willie slammed the van door shut and started the engine.
Michael turned to Henry. The rain continued to beat them. “They've been watching me?”
Henry shook his head. “Can't believe it. Doesn't surprise me though, if I'm honest. Bad bunch of assholes you ran with Michael. Bad bunch.”
Michael climbed onto his Triumph. The seat felt soaked but he didn't care. He only wanted to get this over with and go home to Angie with his pocket bulging. He still didn't know how to explain the cash to her, and Henry's idea of saying that he'd won the lottery looked more and more appealing by the minute.
Michael put on his helmet, the flower sticker that Angie had slapped onto its black surface making him feel silly now. “Hell Fire Club. Can you believe it?”
“They live around there, man. I can't say I'm not worried about you. Could be a setup. But you don't need to be told that… So just be careful, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Henry patted Michael's shoulder. “Sure you don't want me to come?”
Michael shook his head. “Just make sure you're by your phone between five and six. I'll get to a payphone and call you if I need you to come and get me.”
“Vincent's Hospital, yeah?”
“Jesus, Henry.” Michael lowered his visor. “Only if I lose, you morbid prick.” He started the engine, the bike vibrating soothingly beneath him. “Which I won't. I'll be back in one piece. And if worse comes to worse, I'll say I got in a bar fight after one too many. Got it?”
Henry nodded in understanding as Michael eased his way out of the parking space. He gave his friend a wave goodbye and Henry returned a salute. Then Michael took off.
The Triumph's tires splashed through dark puddles collected on the city streets. The bike trembled beneath him, as if it knew it headed for danger. Ahead, Willie's filthy blue van bounced along, waiting for him to catch up. Michael flashed his beams, indicating that he was behind them and Willie took up speed.
They drove out of the city, the urban landscape slowly giving way to greenery. Trees, wet with dew, blurred past. Within the hour, they were deep in the Dublin mountains, a notorious spot for gang members to dump bodies, and god only knew the number of rotting cadavers that still lay undiscovered within the hidden thickets. Gradually, the road became a single lane, lined with potholes. To either side, the steep, vast body of trees descended while the road continued to climb, leaving a threatening drop should one lose grip on the steering wheel.
Michael's ears popped. The temperature crept steadily lower, leaving his denim jacket cold against his skin. He shivered. The noise of the Triumph's engine filled his ears. Ahead, Willie's blue van swayed like the hips of a geriatric, his brake lights hardly ever lighting in the darkening day. Dusk was coming fast.
The bends became increasingly tricky to maneuver, and Michael thought, Can't be much further…
Finally, Willie's brake lights went up, painting the dark road red. Michael lowered his kickstand and cut off the ignition. Smoke from the blue van's exhaust drifted by in the cold air like a ghost. Removing his helmet, Michael lit another cigarette. Ahead, Willie plopped out of his van and lumbered back to him.
“Leaving the van here, so I am.”
“Why?”
“In case the Garda come. Blocks the road off. Only way up is here past Killakee house, we'll see their lights from a mile away. Either way, they'll have to stop here and walk up. Give us time to get the fuck out. It's only a banger of a yolk anyway, not registered, have three others so it's no skin off my back if they take it.”
Michael nodded, not mentioning that his bike was his pride and joy, and if it was taken, Willie would be in hospital.
“Come on then.”
Willie led the way, joined by the ever-scampering Tommy. They'd been walking for less than five minutes when the fat man's breathing became annoyingly loud— he wheezed out phlegmy breaths that occasionally called for a sloppy spit. Tommy shuffled along beside the man, hunched over like his evil sidekick. And in a way, Michael thought, that's exactly what Tommy The Lookout was to him.
“Did you know that this place is called the Hell Fire Wood, Micky?” Willie wheezed. “Did ye?”
“Nope.”
“But you do know the stories of the Hell Fire Club?”
“I know it's meant to be haunted. That's all.”
“Sure there's more to it than that. The clubhouse used to be a hunting lodge, built by William Connolly himself. Georgie's ancestor. Big, mad, rich fucker. Do you know what they used to hunt?”
“Deer?”
Willie shook his head. “Back in the seventeen hundreds, the Connolly lads knew where to find some special animals. Did you ever hear what the Hell Fire Club is haunted by?”
Michael wasn't interested. Still, he answered because he did know what the place was said to be haunted by. Most people in Dublin knew some version of the Hell Fire Club legend or other. “A big black cat.”
Willie laughed. “Big black cat, sure. Chinese whispers ruined that one. Wasn't a cat at all, at all. No. It was a fuckin' wolf.”
“A wolf? In the seventeen hundreds? In Ireland?”
Willie smirked and answered, “Not that farfetched, Micky. Sure, Ireland used to be known as Wolf Country to the foreigners, didn't you know that?”
They hit a crossroads and took a right, heading higher up the hill. To the left, the Dublin Mountains rolled out in all directions, peppered here and there by lonely homes.
“Sure, but that was a long time ago. They went extinct,” Michael said.
“Not extinct. They went into hiding. There's a reason Hell Fire Wood has such a mental name. If you listen carefully…” Willie stopped and held up a finger. “You'll hear that some of them are still here.”
A rustling came from deep within the forest, quickly followed by another on the other side of the road. Then silence returned.
Michael sighed and wiped at his forehead. “Can you cut the ghost stories, Willie? I have business to get to.”
Willie's face fell. “They're not stories. These are words of wisdom if you're smart enough to hear them.”
An uncomfortable silence settled. Then Tommy Fenton spoke up. “Ever hear about the giant hamsters around here?”
“Rodents, Tommy. No one said they were giant hamsters.”
“They did, actually, ye plank. Big mad hamsters, runnin' around eatin' people. Sure, Paula Butler said she saw one eat a tree one time. Didn't have a camera with her, though. But I'd trust her about anything, so I would.”
“Just 'cause you want to give her one. Now shut your gob.”
They continued to walk, the crusty road crunching beneath their feet. Mic
hael saw a tree with deep scrapes etched across its bark and said nothing. He didn't want to draw attention to it. He'd had enough of Willie's spook stories. But unfortunately, Willie saw it too.
“See what I mean, lad? Werewolf claw marks.”
Michael couldn't help but chuckle. “Werewolf claw marks? Where are you going with that? First wolves, then giant guinea pigs—”
“Hamsters,” Tommy corrected.
“Hamsters, right, and now fucking werewolves?”
“You'd do well not to laugh too much about that, Micky. I'm tellin' ya. It's too late either way. Look where we are.”
They rounded the last corner, revealing the clearing at the top of Montpelier Hill. The wind blew heavily up there, and thick clouds hung plump in the sky. Michael counted at least fifty people wandering about, talking and smoking and drinking. Ahead stood the Hell Fire Club itself, its stone structure both horrible and amazing at the same time. It was two stories tall, the front dotted with long holes that used to be windows. In front of the building, over the edge of the hill, Dublin city spread out in all directions like a twinkling sea.
“Michael!”
“Here's the man himself,” Willie said, patting Michael on the back. “Bet you didn't expect him to be here, eh?”
“Dad?”
Michael's father panted. “You didn't think the rest of the Rourkes wouldn't know you were coming here, did you? Are you completely thick? Jesus, Michael, this is the fight of the century. Everyone's here.”
Everyone except Brady, Michael thought. “I'm sorry, Da. I didn't think you'd want to know about it.”
“Doesn't matter.” Michael's father gave a half-smile. “Now look up beside the far wall of the Club there. See your man?”
Michael looked at the man standing just outside the main door of the Hell Fire Club. He looked to be in his late sixties, dressed in an over-sized leather jacket and drinking a bottle of whiskey. His whiskered face moved as he talked to the men surrounding him. Michael didn't have to be told who he was— Georgie Connolly needed no introduction.
“Who do you think he has me against, Da?”