Stone Heart

by Des Ekin

He looked jumpy, agitated, close to desperation. He kept looking at a nearby bus stop and then looking down the road for a bus. She could see clearly into his mind, as easily as you could see a mannequin through a shop window. Get a few quid, get the bus into town, he was thinking. Score some gear.

  ‘Twenty quid. But be careful – if you sell me a fairy tale, you’ll have Barney to deal with.’

  ‘It’s the truth. Honest.’

  Tara took a twenty-pound note from her jeans pocket and unfolded it. ‘Go.’

  ‘Some of them moved to Ballymahon, but I don’t know if Mano went with them. One of the high-rise flats. It was used for dealin’ gear. It still is.’

  ‘Which flat?’

  He shook his head. She shrugged and put the note back into her jeans. Then she revved up her engine. In her rear-view mirror, she noticed a bus a few hundred yards away.

  He saw it too, and quickly made up his mind. ‘Christy Geaney’s flat. Fifth floor, Joy McCracken Tower.’

  He grabbed the outstretched note and ran off. He was afraid of retribution from the dealers. But his blood was crying out for chemicals and anyway, within half an hour or so, he would be past caring.

  ‘I see seven towers, but I only see one way out.’ The line from the U2 song ‘Running To Stand Still’ kept orbiting around Tara’s head as her car clattered its way towards Ballymahon Flats.

  Heroin. That had been the only way out for the tragic character in the anti-drug song. And the seven towers immortalised in the lyrics were the seven soaring tower-block flats that loomed on the fuggy northside horizon.

  Ballymahon had been Dublin’s only experiment with the high-rise flats concept. It had never been repeated, for reasons which were obvious to everyone, but especially obvious to the people who were forced to live there. For years the Corporation had been trying to keep the experiment alive, against all doctors’ advice. Now, at last, the plug was to be pulled on the life-support machine. Ballymahon Flats were to be demolished, and few people were sorry.

  Tara parked outside the shops, a spot where her car would be marginally less vulnerable to vandals. She bought a newspaper, then braved the lashing rain to walk across the patchy green towards Joy McCracken Flats.

  OUT OF ORDER said the sign beside the dilapidated lift. Surprise, surprise. Tara had never actually seen it working. People had lived there for years and never seen it working. Perhaps it never had.

  Now, there was nothing for it but to do what everybody in Joy McCracken Tower had been doing for a long time – put one foot in front of the other and climb all those stairs.

  First flight of steps. Second flight. Third. Tara was reasonably fit, but already she was struggling and getting short of breath. Ahead of her, a young woman was trying to negotiate the steep stairs with a baby-carriage and several precarious-looking plastic bags bulging with shopping.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  ‘Go on ahead, love. I’m not goin’ anywhere fast.’

  ‘Want a hand?’

  ‘Oh, that would be great.’

  Tara took one end of the buggy and, together, they flew up the next two flights.

  ‘You’re a pet. Thanks, love.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Know where you’re goin’ okay, love? You’re not from round here, are you? You sound west of Ireland.’

  ‘Yes. I’m from Clare.’

  ‘My uncle’s from Lisdoonvarna.’

  ‘I’m from Claremoon Harbour. Not too far away.’ Tara took a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. ‘I’m looking for Christy Geaney’s flat.’

  ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph. You sure you want to go there?’ The woman stared at her as though she were mad.

  ‘Yes. I’m looking for a Manus Kennedy. Mano for short. Do you know him?’

  ‘Listen, love, I don’t know any of those hoors in that flat and I don’t want to. And if you listen to my advice, you’ll stay clear of it too. They’re bad news. You goin’ there by yourself?’

  ‘I have to.’

  The woman’s face turned hard. ‘I see. That’s the way it is, is it?’ She gave terse directions to the flat. ‘It’s none of my business if you want to wreck your life, love, but be careful. If the police don’t get you, the vigos will.’

  ‘It’s not like that. Goodbye.’

  ‘G’luck.’

  G’luck. The curt, one-syllable Dublinism that sounded like a Klingon oath and served a dual purpose as a blessing or a malediction. It could mean goodbye. It could be used ironically to dismiss someone who had done you wrong. It could mean ‘get out of my life for ever’. It could mean simply good luck.

  And she would need it.

  Half of the door numbers had been vandalised. It was only by painful mathematical deduction that she identified the flat she sought.

  It was located right at the end of a dark corridor (the lights had all been smashed, probably years ago) and every square inch of its outside walls was covered in hate graffiti. ‘Death dealers must go’. ‘Junkie filth.’ ‘No Aids scum here’ and ‘Pushers out, ri’.

  As in Bernietown, the front door had been reinforced with sheet metal, probably because it had been smashed in so many times. Tara took a deep breath and knocked. Loudly, decisively. Deep down inside, she was hoping that there would be no reply.

  But within seconds, she heard the sound of two metal bolts clunking back. The door opened, but only by six inches. She saw that it was restrained by a heavy-link security chain. Within the narrow band of vision, she saw the face of a girl in her late teens. Her face was pale and gaunt, the piercing eyes sunken into their sockets like those of a cadaver. Her greasy hair, dyed jet black, clung to the outline of her skull. Her expression was one of permanent, deep-set anguish. She reminded Tara of Edvard Munch’s painting The Scream.

  But as soon as she saw Tara, she relaxed. The face became cynical and businesslike. ‘Howaya. What d’ya want?’

  Taken aback by her directness, Tara resorted to the polite formality of the West. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for…’

  ‘Oh, for Jaysus sake cut the crap. How much? Quick. We haven’t got all bleedin’ day.’

  At that moment Tara caught sight of her own reflection in the polished surface of the metal door. Her hair, soaked by the rain, clung greasily to her head. Lank strands fell over a face that looked deathly pale in the poor light.

  I look like her. She thinks I’m a junkie. Here to buy drugs.

  Tara decided to change tack. ‘I’m looking for Mano,’ she said.

  ‘Join the bleedin’ queue.’

  From inside the flat, a male voice. ‘Who’s the Madra talking to?’

  The girl glanced apprehensively over her shoulder.

  ‘He’s not here?’ Tara asked her.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mano.’

  ‘No. You a friend of his?’

  Tara was about to explain when another face appeared in the narrow door-crack. A man, late twenties, features hard and angular as a broken pint glass in a Saturday night brawl. Short-cropped black hair, heavy eyebrows locked together above piercing pale blue eyes. A row of half a dozen tiny gold earrings around the outer ear. Four tiny purple letters, HATE, tattooed on the neck.

  ‘Who you talking to?’ This to the girl.

  ‘I thought it was yer wan from the third floor.’ The girl stared hard at Tara and realised her mistake. ‘I thought she was just here to score a turn-on.’

  ‘Shut it, Madra, you stupid bitch.’ He glared at Tara. ‘What do you want, anyway?’

  ‘She says she’s a friend of Mano’s,’ said the girl miserably, trying hard to make amends.

  ‘Oh, she is, is she?’ The cold eyes came alive with something akin to hatred. The chain rattled. The door flew open, and before she knew what was happening, a sweatshirt-clad arm grabbed her and hauled her forcibly inside.

  ‘Stop. You’re hurting me.’

  No reply. The door slammed behind her. Clunk. One bolt. Thunk. The second bolt. Rattle and clink. The chain.
<
br />   The flat was a shambles. A boarded window, a bare lightbulb, a red carpet stained black with unmentionable liquids. A few broken items of junk-store furniture. Through an open door, Tara could see into the kitchen. She caught a brief glance of golden-brown powder, scales, and a pile of plastic sachets. Then someone slammed the kitchen door from inside.

  ‘Don’t look anywhere. Hear me? Look at me. Look at me.’

  The man with the dealer’s eyes knew what she’d seen. He grabbed her by the lapels of her leather jacket and threw her bodily against a plaster wall pockmarked by darts.

  ‘I’m looking. I’m looking. Calm down.’

  She met his eyes head-on. This was no pathetic junkie, she realised. This was a career criminal with no bad habits except a tendency to extreme violence.

  ‘A friend of Mano’s? Wha’? A mate of Mano’s? Is that what you are?’

  ‘I’m not…’

  He shoved her against the wall again. ‘Just shut your bleedin’ face. If you’re a friend of that bastard, you can start by telling me where he is.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is. That’s why I came here. I was looking for Mano.’

  His thick eyebrows lowered and he gestured towards the girl. ‘You told the Madra you were a friend of his.’

  Madra is Irish for dog. The girl raised no objection. She was obviously used to being described that way.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ Tara glanced over at the girl, seeking confirmation. The man looked around too. The girl froze.

  ‘You did. She told me she was a friend of Mano’s,’ she whimpered.

  It wasn’t true, but the girl wasn’t lying. She was just telling it the way she remembered it.

  The man didn’t care one way or the other. ‘Tell him that if I don’t get that three thousand quid back, he’s bleedin’ dead.’

  ‘I’ll tell him. If I see him.’

  ‘Slowly. He’s going to bleedin’ die slowly. Give him that message from Christy. Got it?’

  Tara nodded. ‘I’ll tell him if I find him. I have to go now. I’ve got friends waiting downstairs.’

  He stared at her long and hard, then suddenly released her and whipped a small metal object from his pocket. Tara flinched. Then she recognised it as a lightweight mobile phone, a top-range model worth hundreds of pounds.

  Short, nicotine-stained fingers dialled the number of another cellphone. ‘Willie? Christy. Girl with black hair, leather jacket, Levis. Came up here five minutes ago. Did she come alone?’

  He listened for a moment. ‘Double check. Have a good look around. Sure? Okay.’

  He stabbed the phone into silence with his index finger. ‘Lying bitch,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not lying. I came up here with a woman with a pram. She warned me not to come here. She’s worried about me. She’s waiting for me to come out again.’

  The eyes considered the lie and instantly dismissed it. ‘If you’re not a friend of Mano’s, who are you?’

  She could sense his emotions shift gear from anger to suspicion. She fought to control her own emotions, forcing her mind to sort through her options. Think. Think quickly. The danger level rose around her like acrid fumes from a chemical fire. Unless she acted soon, it would be out of control and it would be too late to do anything.

  But he was the one who acted first.

  ‘Carl. Come here.’

  The kitchen door opened slowly and disgorged a shy-looking boy with long, lank brown hair parted in the middle. He wore glasses and a Star Trek T-shirt.

  ‘W-what is it? W-w-who’s she?’ His pallid face twisted with the effort of forcing words out.

  ‘Ever seen her before?’

  Carl walked over hesitantly. He took up a position to the side of Tara, so that he could see her face but she couldn’t see him.

  ‘N-no. I d-d-don’t think so. W-w-wait.’

  He swung around and stared at her face-to-face. ‘I’m n-not sure. Y-yes, yes, she is. She’s a re-re-reporter. She was…she was… in court the day Philo went down.’ He finished the sentence in a rush of triumph.

  ‘A reporter?’ Christy was suddenly very interested indeed.

  ‘Y-y-yes. W-w-works for the Evening M-m-m…’

  ‘The Mercury.’

  The room suddenly turned chill, and Tara realised she had a serious problem. Philo she remembered as Philip Romero, one of the most ruthless of the northside drug barons, jailed for fourteen years for operating a heroin-dealing network. Romero had specialised in getting young children addicted; there had been one boy of nine, another of eleven. What had also been remarkable about his operation was the unnecessary violence he used, routinely, sadistically, to assert his authority on the street.

  If these men were in the rump of his gang, then she was in deep trouble.

  ‘She wrote a b-b-big piece about Philo. It w-w-wasn’t very nice.’

  Christy appeared not to hear.

  He turned his back on Tara, took a few steps away, turned around and stared at her again. This time his eyes lingered unpleasantly on her body as he looked her up and down.

  ‘What do you think of Carl?’ he asked her at last.

  There was something ominous in the tone. Tara didn’t answer.

  ‘Bit of a nerd, isn’t he?’

  ‘I really have to go.’

  ‘All the women think he’s a bit of a nerd because he talks funny. He stutters so much that by the time he gets to say hello, they’re saying goodbye.’

  Carl was about to protest, but then he realised the direction the conversation was taking. He waited with silent anticipation.

  ‘I’m sure you don’t think that. So why don’t you be the first woman who’s nice to Carl.’

  Tara was surprised to hear a sudden sob. It was the girl they called the Madra. She was standing directly behind Christy and she was crying with sheer terror.

  ‘No, Christy. Please. No. Just let her go. She hasn’t done nothin’.’

  Christy’s cold stare didn’t leave Tara for a moment. But his arm lashed backwards in a semicircular motion. She screamed as the knuckles connected with the side of her face.

  The girl fell to her knees, making tearing, whimpering noises, like an injured animal.

  ‘Like I was saying. It would be nice and friendly if you were to show Carl a good time. It wouldn’t be the first time for you, bitch. Not by a long shot. But it would be the first time for him.’

  Tara had been expecting this. But what she didn’t expect was the chill that descended on her and turned the blood in her veins to icy sludge.

  ‘You m-m-mean it, Christy?’ Carl looked eager, like a stray dog on the doorstep.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ He kept his eyes on Tara. ‘You see, we’re both up in court soon. We’re about to go down for a long time. But if this deal comes off, we’ll be so far away that nobody’s even gonna remember our names. Either way, what have we got to lose?’

  ‘Y-y-yeah. W-w-why n-n-not.’ Carl’s stutter became staccato with nervousness, and that made him angry. ‘The b-b-bitch deserves it, after what she s-s-said about Philo.’

  Tara knew it was no good screaming for help. In flats like this, the screams of battered wives and girlfriends were just so much background noise, like car alarms in underground car parks.

  Carl was undoing his belt.

  Christy was moving towards her.

  Tara forced herself to remain calm. She recalled Ciarán, the security man, and the advice he kept drumming into her head: you have to move fast, or you don’t get a chance to move at all. And you have to be as violent as they’re going to be.

  Nobody notices a rolled-up newspaper. It’s almost ludicrous, something carried by city gents. Yet if you roll it up exceptionally tightly, as Tara had been doing over the past few minutes, it can be a deadly weapon. You don’t use it like a club. You use it like a short stabbing sword, left hand gripping it in the middle and aiming, the palm of the other hand tucked under the end, powering it upwards.

  Christy hadn’t expected any attack a
s he moved in to pinion her arms.

  He certainly didn’t expect the newspaper that Tara had been twisting nervously, as an agitated person might twist a handkerchief, to come shooting up vertically towards his face.

  The end of the newspaper, solid as mahogany, made contact with the fleshy area between his upper lip and nose. It caused Christy considerable pain. He was used to pain, but he wasn’t used to surprise. Unprepared, his head shot backwards like a crash-test dummy’s.

  ‘Oh God, no. Oh Jesus. Jesus!’ The girl.

  Tara looked around at Carl. But Carl was no threat at all. He was petrified, like a small frightened animal in a car headlight.

  Dash for the door, she told herself. Don’t waste time. Go! Now!

  She covered the few feet in a split second. Thunk. The first bolt. Clunk. The second bolt. Click. Turn the catch. Open. Freedom.

  Skreek. Metal running through metal.

  The chain. Oh, God. I forgot about the door-chain.

  Don’t panic. Lift the chain out of its holder. That’s it. Now…

  Two hands grabbing her. Vicious fingernails digging into her upper arm. A powerful haul backwards. Tara lying on her back, winded, vulnerable. Her wrist on fire with pain – she must have twisted it as she fell. Christy standing over her, broken nose oozing blood down his chin, lips parted in a neanderthal snarl of victory.

  ‘We were gonna make it fun, lady. Now we’re gonna make it hurt.’

  Behind Christy, the girl in the corner, still emitting pathetic animal noises of fear, edging nervously towards the door. Fumbling with the chain. The door opening, slamming.

  ‘Christy! The Madra’s gone!’

  Carl, panicking, voice breaking into a schoolgirl squeal.

  ‘Let her go. The Madra’s not going to go anywhere. Bitch has got no place to go.’

  Christy, blood on his mouth, leaning over her, eyes alive with excitement. ‘We’re going to have a party,’ he whispered.

  The face lowering, close to hers. Drops of blood falling on her cheek. Tara too winded to fight, too breathless even to scream.

  His left forearm resting heavily on her throat, blocking off her windpipe until she found it difficult to breathe. His right hand snaking downwards, unbuttoning her jeans. His eyes, bright and hard as steel points on a drill, remaining locked on hers, waiting for her terror to blaze and flare.