The two groups of masked men roared, as did the drinkers outside the Leaping Trout. Cassidy could see more of the pub’s patrons rushing out, now that the festivities had started.
The crowd at the top of the Sunnyvale Road started chanting. “Jimmy! Jimmy! Jimmy!”
The others soon took it up.
“Bugger this.”
Cassidy swung into the driver’s seat, tossing her phone onto the dashboard. Norman hopped into the passenger seat beside her. “All cars, pull back now. I will pick up Riordan and Brennan.”
She could faintly hear DI O’Rourke demanding an update over the phone, which she ignored.
A glance in the rear-view mirror showed her the crowd at the top of Sunnyvale Road, Darth Vader standing before them with a lit Molotov cocktail in his hand. He hurled it at them. Luckily, Darth wasn’t anywhere near as good a shot as the first guy had been. Instead of hitting their car, it veered into the drive of a house two doors down, setting somebody’s ice cream van ablaze.
Cassidy walloped the button to turn on the blues and twos, while simultaneously slamming her foot down on the accelerator. As they pulled away, she caught the briefest glimpse of Darth Vader getting smacked upside the head by Homer Simpson. Somebody clearly liked ice cream.
The crowd coming from Didsbury Road were heading towards the burning Garda car. At least they were – until they noticed the other Garda car heading straight for them.
“Butch?”
Most of the twenty or so figures turned in their direction. The smarter ones got out of the way, the cockier ones stayed in the road, chanting with arms aloft.
“Butch?!”
Cassidy had long ago decided that the best way to bluff was not to bother. Cocksure bravery was no match for physics. At a point, even the dumbest of them realised she wasn’t stopping. Bodies scattered as she threw the car into a sharp right turn. One fat kid in a gorilla mask got a thump off the back end as the car fishtailed around the corner, but he would live.
“CHRIST!” Norman, on the other hand, looked liked he’d aged a decade in the previous fifteen seconds. He had his eyes closed and appeared to be having a one-sided conversation with Jesus.
As she screeched the car to a halt, she saw a third group of trick-or-treaters at the top of Crossan Road surging towards them. Rocks started raining down on the car, mostly from the front. The Didsbury Road crowd were temporarily distracted picking each other up. Brennan and Riordan dived into the back seat, Tony Brennan getting a half brick to the shoulder for the privilege of being second.
Before the door had even closed Cassidy floored it. The crowd behind had regrouped and were running towards them. The bigger concern lay in front. One kid in a mask she didn’t recognise was holding yet another Molotov cocktail as his mate tried to light it. She headed straight for them, banking on their fear trumping their bravery.
Adrenaline pumping, Cassidy was dimly aware of Norman in the passenger seat, working his way through Hail Marys like they were going out of fashion.
“Hang on!”
The kids got the cloth to light when Cassidy was about thirty feet away. She could see the whites of their eyes as they looked up to see their intended victim barrelling towards them. The chucker dropped his payload, setting his soon-to-be ex-buddy’s leg alight in the process. They dived in opposite directions, as did their cohorts. If this was bowling, it would have been a strike – not that they actually made contact.
As the car hurtled through the sprouting flames, Butch’s professionalism slipped momentarily and she punched the roof. “Yippee ki-yay, mother-humpers!!!”
As their car hurtled up Crossan Road, they passed a couple of motorbikes coming the other way. She had got her people out successfully, but Butch would stake her life on the fact that they had just lost their grip on the whereabouts of Franko Doyle and Tommy Carter.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Franko Doyle was getting royally sick of bloody motorbikes. Every one of Tommy’s plans seem to involve them in one way or another.
The two bikes had come haring down Crossan Road in the opposite direction to the fleeing coppers and then stopped outside the pub. Franko took the helmet he was offered and hopped on the back of one of the bikes as Tommy did the same on the other.
He then hung on for dear life as the bikes took off. They sped past the bottom of Crossan Road, and up ahead he saw the bike with Tommy on the back drive through the four-foot wall of flames caused by the dropped Molotov. Franko was grateful that his rider felt less of a need to showboat, instead easing off the speed slightly and going around. Franko caught a brief glimpse of Deirdre Duffy’s young fella, all of fourteen, crying his eyes out as others looked down at his scorched legs. There’d be hell to pay over that.
They raced down one of the laneways off Crossan Road, then took a left and a right, before skipping down another laneway and coming out on a green in the Parnell Heights Estate opposite.
Tommy’s bike stopped and he dismounted, pulling off his helmet. He seemed to be breathing funny. The rider of his bike took off his helmet, revealing himself to be Mick Kitchener. Tommy knew his dad.
“Wahoo!” yelled Mick. “That was a fucking rush, man.”
Tommy then slammed his helmet into Mick’s face. The kid collapsed off the bike, his hands held to his shattered nose and bloodied mouth, a look of terrified incomprehension in his eyes.
“What the fuck?” said the other rider, who, Franko suddenly realised, was a bird. Through all the leather, he’d not noticed. He didn’t recognise her at all. “What the hell did you do that for?” she said.
“Are you questioning me?”
Franko managed to get himself between Tommy and the girl as he surged towards her.
“She’s not, she’s not. Relax, Tommy.”
Tommy’s eyes were wild in a way Franko hadn’t seen before. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought he was on something. A demented smile seemed to be frozen upon his face. His breaths were short and fast, like a greyhound after a race.
“You OK, Tommy?”
Tommy took a moment and then pushed Franko away. “I’m fine. I just don’t like unnecessary risk.” He turned and walked a few paces. “Franko – a word.”
Franko dutifully followed him, glancing back to see the girl helping Kitchener up as he spat out a couple of teeth.
Tommy turned to look at Franko, the wildfire now gone from his eyes.
“You’re clear on the plan?”
Franko nodded.
“And you remember the location?”
Franko nodded again.
“OK then.”
“Is O’Donnell going to meet us there?”
Tommy stopped and looked down at the ground for a moment. “John’s dead.”
“What?”
Tommy shrugged. “Skinner contacted me yesterday, said he wasn’t getting any better and the wound had become infected. He dealt with it.”
“Jesus.”
“Problem?”
Franko looked at Tommy’s face, back to its normal emotionless veneer. “No, I just . . . Are you OK?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You were, y’know . . .”
Franko stopped talking.
After a moment, Tommy nodded, walked over to Kitchener’s bike and got on. Kitchener tried to speak, but showing admirable survival instincts, the girl pulled him away before he could say anything.
Tommy kicked the bike into life. “She’ll take you where you need to go.”
Franko nodded and Tommy rode off towards the main road.
“What the hell is his bleedin’ problem?” said the girl.
Franko watched him ride away. “You don’t want to know.”
Chapter Fifty
Gringo stood under the shower and let the almost scalding water drill into his face.
They had eventually got back to Bunny’s place at one in the morning, having developed a new appreciation for the level of commitment the criminal fraternity had shown to
bury so many bodies in the Wicklow Mountains over the years. Even in the soft ground, digging a hole eight foot deep had taken a lot of time. He also now understood what the phrase “dead weight” meant. If he ever had to do it again, he would make sure that the dead bodies walked themselves to the hole before being relieved of their mortal coils. They had been careful to cover the ground with leaves, and the winter weather should do the rest. By the time the summer ramblers returned, they would have no idea what they were walking on.
Gringo was clear on the why and what of the things they had done, but the who had held one last nasty surprise. The big fella, Frock, had been carrying no ID on him. Lopez, however, had. A card in his wallet identified him as an FBI agent called Daniel Zayas. Gringo had tried to make the case that it might be fake, but neither of them had been convinced. That was only going to be bad news. Gringo had slipped the wallet into his coat pocket. He was going to dump it somewhere later on, that was what he had told himself.
Both he and Bunny knew that to make the bodies harder to identify, they could remove teeth and destroy the fingerprints. They never directly discussed it, both knowing that, somehow, that would feel like crossing a line too far. Later that night, they had added to their growing list of criminal misdeeds. Bunny drove Frock’s Audi to just off Gardiner Street and left the keys in the ignition. By now, nature would have taken its course. It would either be in pieces or an entirely different colour with an entirely different number plate.
Overall, Gringo was surprised by how he felt about the whole thing – or, rather, how he didn’t feel. Numb, that was the word. Two men who would have killed them – and in fact had intended to, judging by their gravedigging kit – were dead, and he and Bunny had disposed of their bodies. Gringo had killed one of them. A few weeks ago, that would have seemed an unconscionable act, but that was a whole other life now.
The one positive in so comprehensively messing his life up was that it had provided a wonderful clarity. You don’t notice the pinpricks when there’s a large sword dangling over your head.
He had been drowning in debt. The cards had started out as a hobby, a bit of excitement to liven up his week, some escapism to temporarily free himself from the crumbling ruins of his marriage. Then, the worst thing that could happen, happened. He had won. Suddenly, he could afford to cover the cost of his mother’s extortionately-priced care home and his bills from the divorce and still have a bit left over. Life was good. It was that simplest of traps: when you won it was skill and when you lost, well, it was just a temporary run of bad luck. His addiction had been an invisible, odourless gas, and he had been too stupid to realise that his downfall had been softly whispering into the world around him.
Still, right now, he didn’t give two shits for a couple of psychos who could and would’ve killed him, Bunny and Simone given half the chance. Maybe that would change, but he doubted it. No, the ghost that haunted his dreams was that of Dara O’Shea. Gringo still didn’t know how, but Jessica Cunningham had broken Franko Doyle and he was willing to give them everything. Once they’d decided they needed some help, they had then carefully approached Gringo. They had known all about his debt. How bad it was. Everything. They told him they could make it go away in the short term, and he could make a whole lot more in the long term.
Gringo’s back ached, his side was a rather spectacular collage of purples, browns and blacks, and the knife wound on his thigh hurt like a bastard. Before getting in the shower, he had removed the bandages to have a closer look. While it was three inches long, the wound was thankfully not that deep. When they’d got back, Simone had insisted on cleaning it thoroughly. Gringo had popped a couple of painkillers and the next thing he knew it was after 3 am. He’d woken up on Bunny’s sofa, a duvet over him and every inch of his body in pain.
It felt like he hadn’t slept properly in an age. For weeks now, his nights had been filled with variations on a theme. Dreams where he was being dragged – behind horses, a car, a juggernaut – and once, memorably, an elephant. All the time, being dragged helplessly forward. You didn’t need a doctorate in psychology to understand what was going on.
The water started to turn cold and Gringo realised he had used up the remaining contents of the tank. Bunny and Simone had already been in. They were downstairs cooking a fried breakfast. It was half three in the morning but Bunny had always been a firm believer in the all-day breakfast principle. Before hopping in the shower, Gringo had watched them for a little while. A silent negotiation had been taking place between them, Simone trying to show Bunny that she was fine while Bunny tried to hide his aching need to protect her under a sheen of nonchalance. Given where they had started from, he wasn’t sure if they had ever reached a state of normal before the roof had fallen in. Still, there was something there. It hurt a little to be around. Not that he wasn’t happy as all hell for Bunny – he truly was. Gringo’s own marriage had been an exercise in mistaking lust for love, and being around the real thing was painful. Like seeing sunlight after spending so long underground.
Bunny had woken him with a cup of tea and an apology. He’d said he’d debated letting him sleep, but had reckoned rightly that Gringo would want to hear the news they had just received from Butch. Under the cover of a near-riot, Carter and Doyle had disappeared off the grid. Gringo had checked his phone, on which he’d seen the text message he had been dreading.
Feeling slightly more human after his shower, Gringo re-bandaged his leg, dressed and went downstairs. He could hear Simone in their bedroom, softly humming a melancholy tune.
“There he is – Sleeping Beauty,” said Bunny, working away industriously over the cooker, the aroma of frying meat filling the downstairs.
“Fresh as a newborn lamb.”
“Praise Jesus!”
Gringo leaned against the counter and lowered his voice. “So look, what do we do if someone comes looking for those guys?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Bunny, inexpertly flipping a fried egg.
“Bunny?”
He turned to look at Gringo for the first time. “I said don’t worry about it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Listen to me – leave it alone, alright? If anyone comes looking for them, I will handle it. You weren’t there, it has nothing to do with you.”
Simone entered the kitchen, wafting a hand in front of her face. “Damn, is there any food in this house that didn’t die screaming?”
“I certainly hope not,” replied Bunny, giving her a wide grin.
“Yeah, because a bit of healthy living would kill you.”
“I’ll have you know, my granddad had the full Irish fried breakfast every day of his life. Never did him any harm.”
“Really?” asked Simone. “Would that be the same granddad who died before you were born?”
Bunny shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, nice try, buddy. You could also do with some more regular exercise.”
“I’m game if you are.”
“Bunny! Mind your manners.” Simone flashed Gringo an embarrassed smile. “So, how’re you feeling?”
“I’ll live,” replied Gringo.
“Not if you eat too many of his breakfasts you won’t.”
“Well, I’m in luck there. I’ve got to go.”
“What?” said Bunny. “Don’t be daft. It’s the middle of the night!”
“I know, but I’ve got an early meeting about something.”
“Please,” said Simone, “stay. A good breakfast is the very least I owe you. If it helps, I’ve got some Bran Flakes stashed away?”
“Christ,” said Bunny. “Et tu, Brute?”.
“Oh shut up. You’re going to start eating like a grown-up. End. Of. Story.”
“She’s right, amigo, you need to keep yourself regular. There’s no telling what other weapons you might have stockpiled up there.”
“Ha ha, very funny.”
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
A look passed between Bunny and Simone
.
He turned from the cooker to address Gringo directly. “Look, if this is the Carter thing . . . we can get you out of it. Let me help. Just, tell me.”
Gringo raised his hand.
“It’s not. And anyway, like I said, not your problem.”
“But—”
“But nothing.”
Gringo gave Simone a hug and threw a playful punch at Bunny’s belly. “Enjoy your breakfast in the middle of the night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Gringo sat in his car and dialled the number.
“Finally.”
“Something came up.”
“Well I’m sorry to have to drag you away. What did he say?”
Gringo glanced back towards Bunny’s front door. “Like I told you, he’s not interested.”
“For Christ’s sake. He knows too much.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“He’s not going to say anything, alright?”
“I am not putting my future in the hands of that—”
“You don’t have to. Look, I have things on him, he has things on me. Call it mutually-assured destruction.”
There was silence on the other end, long enough that Gringo was tempted to see if the call was still connected.
“Get over here now and we will discuss this further. The clock is ticking.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Tommy Carter leaned back against his jeep, hugged his windbreaker to himself and watched the eastern sky lighten to meet the new day. He had been here since 5:30 am, spending most of the time lost in silent contemplation. There was something reassuring about the sea – so immense and powerful, entirely disinterested in your existence. It had been here before him and it would be here long after him. For a mad moment, he considered walking down the jetty, taking his shoes and socks off and going for a paddle. He quickly dismissed the idea; it was a starkly cold December morning, and besides, he was here on business.
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