Stone Heart

by Des Ekin

  Breaking up with Chris Calder had been the hardest decision she’d ever made. And yet she’d never regretted it. True, Calder was all the things her friends said he was – rich, intelligent, good looking, the rising star of the King’s Inns. But he was a closet dictator, a control freak who insisted on telling her what to do, what to say, what to wear, which of her friends should be discouraged because they were bad for her image (Melanie among them, apparently) and which social acquaintances should be cravenly cultivated. The problem reached crisis point when he made a surprise marriage proposal, ostentatiously and in public. In the course of a few seconds, she looked at the prospect of living her entire life that way, and decided she couldn’t do it. Everyone had thought she was crazy when she turned him down.

  ‘Anyway.’ Chris glanced pointedly at his classic 1960s Rolex. ‘You told my clerk you had a question for me and it wouldn’t take much time. I’d planned to discuss it with you over coffee, but I’m running behind schedule. Perhaps we could just talk about it here and now.’

  ‘Fine by me.’ Tara forced herself to collect her thoughts and concentrate on her present task. ‘I’ve heard that you’ll be appearing for CAB in a case against the Viney family in Limerick. The drug dealers.’

  Calder nodded. CAB – insiders pronounced it as in the word taxicab – was shorthand for the Criminal Assets Bureau, an organisation formed specifically to separate crooks from their ill-gotten gains. It had successfully seized the assets of several dubious characters who had made millions with no visible means of support other than the dole.

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but the case won’t come up until September,’ he said, sounding slightly relieved that the topic wasn’t anything to do with their former relationship. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I need information.’

  He frowned. ‘Is this for publication, Tara? Because it’s highly confidential.’

  ‘No. Purely background. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

  ‘Well, in that case…’ He whipped out a pocket organiser and a minuscule cellphone. ‘Infrared connection,’ he explained as he dialled a number. ‘Links me up with the computer network in the office.’

  A few keystrokes later, a lengthy document began scrolling across the tiny screen.

  ‘These are the affidavits we’ll be presenting to the High Court when we move to seize the Viney family assets,’ Calder said. ‘There are one hundred and seventy pages of them.’

  ‘Can I have a copy?’

  ‘Nice try, Tara. No.’ He grinned to show it wasn’t personal. ‘What do you need? I mean, specifically? Give me a clue and I’ll do a Find.’

  Tara peered across at the diminutive screen. ‘I want to find out if the name Manus Kennedy crops up anywhere in the Vineys’ business dealings.’

  He typed in the surname. ‘No, I’m afraid not. No Kennedys at all.’

  Tara looked out the passenger window, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘Would you expect his name to appear there?’ she asked at last. ‘I mean, if he was mixed up with them in any way?’

  ‘No doubt about it. This investigation is so thorough, it almost lists the people who gave the Vineys their Communion money.’ He glanced at her. ‘Is that it, Tara? Because…’

  ‘One more quick search, Chris.’

  He checked his Rolex again. ‘Okay, shoot. What is it?’

  ‘Villiers. Godfrey Villiers.’

  He keyed in the name. ‘All right. This time you’re in luck.’ He scrolled down through the text and whistled softly. ‘Which is more than I can say for Mr Villiers. CAB are applying to have his gallery closed down. They say it exists purely for the purpose of laundering drug cash.’ Calder squinted as he tried to decipher the next paragraph. ‘Part of their evidence against him is that he’s been seen associating with known drug dealers, to wit Christy Geaney and Paul Lawless, last known address Block C, Bernadette Towers. It’s Game Over for Godfrey Villiers, I’m afraid. Serves him right for having a name like that.’

  Tara sat bolt upright. ‘What was that name again?’

  ‘Christy Geaney.’

  ‘No, the other one.’

  ‘Paul Lawless. Mind you’ – he typed a quick memo – ‘that address is outdated. I think the lovable Mr Lawless is under assessment in a psychiatric hospital at the moment.’

  ‘I know. I’ve just been talking to him.’ Tara felt her heartbeat quicken as she took out her notebook. ‘Give me that address.’

  He jotted it down on a page from his Filofax, ripped it out and handed it to her. ‘Remember that’s in Block C, the very worst part of Bernietown. Don’t even think of going there unless you’ve got an army escort. Preferably in a Sherman tank.’ He rapidly cut the phone connection before Tara could ask for another favour. ‘Is that it?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s it, Chris. Thanks. I owe you one.’

  ‘Yes. One thousand guineas. My usual fee.’ He kept a straight face, then laughed as her face fell. ‘Only joking.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘It’s just one thousand euros.’

  She returned his smile and felt an old familiar stirring. Somewhere deep inside, she couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if she’d swallowed her pride, had a personality lobotomy and become a Stepford Wife. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad after all. Maybe he would have changed. Maybe he would have become less dictatorial, less demanding…

  ‘Well, I’d better go.’ He hoisted his briefcase on to his knee. ‘Just one thing, Tara.’

  ‘What’s that, Chris?’ Tara was used to Chris’s just-one-things. It was his way of introducing the most important topic on his mind.

  ‘I have a confession to make. I didn’t just happen to meet you outside the building. I was waiting for you.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want you to be seen inside my office. Tongues would start wagging. Especially after that Evening Report! article.’ His voice became lower and more intense, inviting her sympathy and understanding. ‘You see, I’m about to get a major role in the new Tribunal on the Family, and I just can’t risk any damage to my reputation. I’ll always be here for you, Tara, if you need help, but for old times’ sake, please don’t tell anyone you know me. Let our past stay in the past.’

  Tara nodded silently.

  ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t see each other from time to time,’ said Chris in a different tone. ‘It just means we’d have to be discreet. You could come to my London apartment, for instance, or I could visit you when I’m in County Clare.’

  ‘You mean, you’d like the occasional fling? As long as you’re not seen with me in public?’

  ‘That’s it.’ He was glad she understood.

  ‘I don’t think so. Goodbye, Chris.’

  She opened the car door and got out. He remained seated, obviously intending to wait until she’d got well clear of the area before daring to emerge.

  ‘Oh, and Tara!’ he called softly though his open window as she walked away.

  She paused without turning around. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do something about that hairstyle. It doesn’t suit you at all.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  AT EXACTLY ten-thirty am, Tara drove her Fiat across Capel Street Bridge towards the south city. Timing was an important consideration if you planned to visit Bernadette Towers. Midmorning was best: the young kids would be out and about, but older troublemakers would still be asleep after a late night of beer and MTV and there was less chance of getting hassled, robbed or mugged.

  But of course, this was just a general rule. It didn’t take into account the hungry and desperate junkies, who didn’t live by everyone else’s time. They obeyed only their inner clock of dark cravings and compulsions. Hours didn’t matter to them. And nobody, old or young, male or female, able-bodied or infirm, had safe passage when their irresistible demons demanded to be fed.

  Out past the Guinness brewery and Heuston Station. Past the red-brick inner-city suburbs. Two mangy hors
es chomped at the heavily-littered grass as she swung into the road that led to Bernietown.

  A few hundred yards of glass-strewn concrete and she was there. It was just as she remembered it from previous visits. Three grey concrete squares, Blocks A to C, each containing three storeys of flats looking down on a windy central quadrangle that was grandly known as a ‘piazza’. It looked more like a prison yard.

  To her left were a grimy general store, a fruit-and-veg shop, and a launderette. Back and forth between shop and flats trailed an ant-like procession of women with buggies. Many of them were mere teenagers – pale young girls with old, world-weary faces. All too often, the swelling under their cheap anoraks revealed a second or even a third child on the way. Some of them would be grandmothers by their early thirties.

  Tara deliberately bypassed Block C and drove into the central square of Block B. As she got out of her car, she heard the sound of excited screaming above and to her left. She swung around. High up on the third storey, a group of young teenage kids were hanging out of a window. Suspended beneath them, clutching on to their outstretched arms and swinging wildly from side to side, was a red-haired boy who couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. Ten or fifteen feet beneath him was a flat concrete roof. He was the one who was screaming, half in excitement and half in terror. The game seemed to be one of endurance. At last his hands lost their strength and he tumbled in freefall. His mates cheered. He landed awkwardly, with a solid crump of flesh on unyielding stone. It must have hurt like hell. He didn’t show it. He scrambled to his feet and gave them a sexual gesture of defiance and contempt.

  ‘Howaya.’

  A voice from behind her.

  Tara was startled. She hadn’t noticed the half-dozen youngsters who’d emerged from the concrete caverns and surrounded her car. They were touching it curiously.

  She nodded a curt greeting. ‘Do you know where Barney Gould lives?’

  She knew perfectly well where Barney Gould lived. He was a community leader and a former contact, and she’d been to his flat often enough. But she wanted them to know she was a friend of Barney. It meant a safe-pass for herself and her car.

  The oldest boy, dirty fair hair tightly shaved, face covered with disfiguring acne, smirked suggestively. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Why don’t we ask Barney that? I’m a good friend of his.’

  ‘Top storey. Red door.’

  One of the younger kids began picking a bit of rusted metal off the wing of the Fiat. Another, possibly his older brother, cuffed him over the back of the head.

  The mere mention of Barney’s name had already saved her a considerable amount of hassle. Barney was a former Olympic coach whose boxing club played a major role in preventing young kids of Bernietown from falling victim to the drug dealers. Some of the kids worshipped him, others hated him. But everyone treated him with respect.

  ‘Up here? Thanks.’

  The oldest boy leered. She could imagine the grins and the gestures directed at her back as she walked towards the stairwell. She didn’t care. At least they wouldn’t touch her. Or her car.

  The concrete stairwell smelled exactly as public-authority stairwells smell all over the world, from Bernietown to Birmingham, from Belfast to the Bronx. Crude graffiti on the walls, empty beer cans on the stairs, puddles in the corners. Side-stepping the obstacles carefully, she made her way to the top and rang the bell on the red door.

  She waited for a few moments and then knocked as well, feeling a mounting sense of panic as the seconds ticked away in silence. No answer.

  Barney wasn’t at home.

  She was on her own.

  She looked over the concrete balcony towards Block C. It was hundreds of yards away, on the other side of a litter-strewn wasteland, but she could read the graffiti from here. The last time she’d been to that block, she’d been in the company of a burly cop and a six-foot cameraman, and it had still scared the hell out of her.

  Walking from Block B to Block C was like moving into a lower circle of hell. While Block B had its share of problems, the majority of people who lived there were decent folk – couples, families, single parents, all trying to make the best of what they had. Some of them loved living in Bernietown and wouldn’t move away if you paid them to. Block C, on the other hand, was where nobody in his right mind wanted to live. It was where the authorities put their problem tenants – deserted mothers with uncontrollable teenage sons, young single men with violent tendencies, junkies and dealers, discharged mental patients. It wasn’t meant to be that way. But like water finding its own level, that’s how it had ended up.

  Picking her way through the discarded mattresses and burned-out cars to Block C, she passed gangs of screaming kids, groups of wary-eyed women and – in the first shadowy corridor – a sullen coven of strung-out junkies. To her immense relief, she found the flat she was looking for on ground level. There would be no need to use the stairwell. She hated to think what unpleasant surprises it would hold at each turn of the steps.

  The flat had been deserted for some time. The entrance was sealed with a metal door, and someone had sprayed the words ‘Junky scum out’ on the rough plywood that boarded up the windows.

  A small hole had been punched through the ply. Peering through, she could make out the outline of what had once been a living room. A couple of torn mattresses on the floor. An opened bottle of what had once been milk. The remains of a loaf. A few newspapers. On one mattress, a well-used syringe and a leather belt. Some scraps of burned kitchen-foil. In the far corner, something stirred. It was a large, ugly rat.

  ‘It’s empty. There’s nobody livin’ there any more.’

  She looked around to see an emaciated teenager in a Metallica T-shirt and skin-tight, heavily kneebagged jeans. She recognised him as one member of the group of desperate junkies who’d been hanging around the end of the concrete corridor. He was eyeing her up and down, wondering whether she was worth the trouble of mugging.

  ‘Yes, I know that.’ She glanced up and down the corridor, pretending to look for someone. ‘See Barney Gould around? I’m due to meet him at eleven.’

  The teenager looked away in obvious disappointment. If she was a friend of Barney’s, she wasn’t a target any more.

  ‘Know who lived there?’ She gestured to the deserted flat.

  ‘Squatters. Four or five fellas. They’ve moved out. Dunno where to.’

  ‘Were they dealing?’

  ‘Coupla them were. Others were just usin’, right? Somathem weren’t doin’ anything, just hangin’ out. Just goofin’ around. Anyway, they’re all gone now.’ He looked at her in a new light. ‘You lookin’ to score somethin’?’

  She didn’t answer. ‘Who’re you waiting on?’ she asked. ‘Deals on Wheels?’

  Deals on Wheels was the local nickname of Dave Feskin, a disabled drug peddler who’d operated a thriving business from his wheelchair. He was just one of a long line of dealers who’d used unorthodox means of transport around Bernietown. Another had ridden horseback on a mangy pony. And a third had done his deals on an eighteen-speed mountain bike – the ultimate drug peddler.

  ‘Deals on Wheels?’ The teenager laughed derisively. ‘No, he’s long gone.’

  ‘Manus Kennedy?’ Tara took a shot in the dark.

  Four other junkies sidled up and formed a menacing circle around her.

  The teenager in the Metallica T-shirt looked puzzled. ‘Manus Kennedy? Dunno him.’

  Tara described Manus as accurately as she could. ‘He would have had a west of Ireland accent. County Clare. A bit like mine.’

  To her amazement, all five teenagers burst out laughing.

  ‘You mean Mano,’ said the first junkie. ‘Mano the man.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Everyone knew Mano. He came here a coupla months ago. There was himself, a fella called Paul – he was one sick bastard – and a coupla others. One of them got the flat from the Corpo after the last crowd were driven out. There was a lot of drug
dealin’, but I don’t think Mano was involved. He was a strange sorta fella. He just kept to himself, didn’t talk much.’ He kicked an empty beer can. ‘Anyway, after a while Paul got done for robbin’. Then the vigos forced the rest of them out.’

  Tara took a deep breath. ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  ‘Who?’

  She’d lost his attention. His junkie eyes were wandering all over the flats complex, looking for some sort of chemical salvation.

  Only one member of the group, a skinny youth in an old denim jacket, kept his eyes fixed on her.

  Tara tried to hide her frustration. ‘Mano. The fella from Clare.’

  ‘Already told ya. Dunno.’

  He began scratching himself restlessly. ‘I’m goin’ over to Block A,’ he said to his mates. ‘See if there’s anythin’ doin’ over there.’ He turned to the skinny teenager in the denim jacket, who was still staring at Tara. ‘Forget it,’ he said, reading his thoughts. ‘She’s a friend of Barney’s.’

  He turned his back on them and walked off. After a moment of uncertainty, the others followed.

  Tara heaved a deep sigh of relief and made her escape to Block B. She found her car undamaged, although two of the young lads were contentedly using it as a climbing frame.

  Shifting them unceremoniously from the roof, she drove out past the shopping centre and towards the main road. But just around the corner, she saw a figure standing in the road trying to flag her down.

  Her first instinct was to step on the accelerator. But then she recognised him as one of the group of drug users – the skinny one who’d kept staring at her.

  Tara made sure both her doors were locked and pulled up at the kerb. She wound down her driver’s side window, but only by an inch.

  ‘Well?’ She kept her voice very neutral. She kept the car in gear and her foot on the clutch.

  ‘The new address. What’s it worth to ya?’