by John Brady
She tucked the pistol into her jeans and let her sweatshirt fall over the grip.
“Does my husband know that I know he’s hopping in and out of bed with those ones in Dublin? Well now, Inspector down from Dublin, my husband doesn’t know. He knows fuck-all. That’s how much he knows.”
She looked down at him and resumed with a lilt in her voice.
“But I’ll tell you who does know. I’ll tell you who knows everything. Tidy Howard knows. He could tell you things. But he never will. He’ll go to his grave with everything he knows and it’ll be buried with him. And that’s just fine by me.”
She gave a little shrug as if weighing a decision.
“He knows because I tell him everything. It’s my way of thanking him. I visit him and I talk to him and I tell him the news. He always wanted the news. ‘Give us the news now,’ he’d always say in the old days. ‘If you haven’t any, make up a bit.’ Well, I don’t make up anything. I give him the facts. I tell him how Ciarein has me every way he wants in the back of his van. I think that my father-in-law is the type of man who’d be keen to hear about stuff like that. He certainly used to, and that’s no lie.”
Something squirmed in Minogue’s belly. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. He saw Ciaran scrabbling and shoving at her, then the paralysed, wasting shell limp in bed, unable to talk or scream while his daughter-in-law sat next to him, chatting dutifully.
“Oh, yes,” she went on, “I tell him everything because I know he’s discreet. He won’t tell anyone. I tell him the fun we have making a monkey out of Dan. I think he likes to hear my news too because I can see in his eyes that he knows what I’m saying. And I know he’s glad to see me because there are tears in his eyes when I get up to go. Yes, with his eyes popping out of his head like they’ll burst. Tragic, isn’t it? I hear the staff say that regularly. The tragic part…”
Had he recognised some of this power in her, he wondered. Her reserve that day as she walked into the Old Ground hotel, her coolness at home, pouring tea and putting up with Crossan. But there was a desperation too, he saw now, in her courting danger, a recklessness that would unnerve even those she ran with.
She stood away from the wall and flexed her fingers.
“Ciaran says that what works is if you start at the feet and work your way up every minute or so.”
Minogue struggled for control until he was sure the screams inside could be heard by her. “Sooner or later,” he gasped, “you’ll make a slip-”
She started to smile but it seemed to be too much for her to finish. Her face fell a little. Her eyes lost interest and an empty look took over her face.
“You’ve had your chance,” she whispered.
With her retreating footsteps the terror swooped down on him again. While she had been here there was some hope at least. The bottom of the door screeched as it caught and dragged fragments of cement across the floor. He looked over his shoulder toward the door.
“No,” she said, and she yanked at the door again. It jammed half-way.
“Fucking stupid bastard!” said Ciaran. “Stupid! Time’s up.”
“You heard him,” Sheila Howard said in a dead voice. “He’s sticking to it. He says he-”
“Ah, he says! He’s a Guard!” said Ciaran.
Then the voice of the stranger, this time without any disguise. He spoke in a drawl, as though weather prospects were being guessed. “He’s a Guard, all right. Ye certainly got that part correct. Is the stuff all out of the van, by the way?”
The gentle sarcasm, the local accent worked on Minogue’s thoughts.
“Yeah. It all fit handy enough in the boot,” said another man’s voice. Finbarr, thought Minogue.
“Thanks,” said the stranger. “A nice job of work. Good.”
“Well, how were we supposed to know he’d be hanging around the house this morning?” Ciaran erupted again.
“True for you there,” the stranger replied after a pause. The sarcasm was gone from his voice now. “True for you, boy. You’d never have expected it.”
Seconds of silence followed. They’re deciding, Minogue thought. No one wants to say it out loud. Footsteps shuffled, a sigh.
“It’s late,” said the stranger. “Too late really. Come on in now and we’ll pay our respects to your man inside. Leave that down on the bench like a good man, Finbarr, for fear you’ll drop it again and it’ll take the toes off someone. This is my job now.”
Minogue heard a low growl, as if he was clearing his throat, rising in his own chest. His own animal terror, his body’s need for any movement. He stifled the cry and jogged the chair once, twice, until he had a view of the door. Through the slit between door and jamb, a shadow passed. There was a clump as something heavy was laid on the bench. A choked-off murmur escaped from Minogue. Good God, he thought, his body was acting on its own-it knows something. His mind was gone.
“I don’t think he really has anything-” Sheila Howard said.
“Don’t be worrying yourself, Mrs Howard. You don’t have to do a thing now.”
“Don’t keep calling her that!” Ciaran’s voice rose. “For Christ’s sake, you’re always taking digs at her-”
“Sorry, Gary. Don’t fuss yourself now. It’s just that me and her nibs go back a good number of years.” Minogue sat very still: a good number of years?
“Come on now, let’s not be arguing. We can fix the rest up later.”
“I’m staying here,” said Sheila Howard.
“Ah, come on now,” said the stranger. “We’re all in it together. It’s a lesson for everyone, now.”
Minogue heard his own breath rush out of his nostrils. His heart was thumping in a cold, empty place. The door screeched open across the pebbles. Deegan stopped and looked at him.
“Jesus Christ,” said Deegan. “Who took the bag off him?”
“He couldn’t breathe enough to even talk, so I-”
“You fucking what?”
“Leave her alone!” came Ciaran’s rising voice. “What difference does it make now?”
Deegan wandered slowly back into the doorway. He shook his head and looked up from the floor. He looked at Minogue with cold, moist eyes, an automatic pistol in his left hand. Ciaran stepped in the doorway behind him, his face sullen, followed by Sheila Howard. She wouldn’t look at Minogue. Her eyelashes batted rapidly and her hand went to her hair. Finbarr shambled in and stood next to Ciaran, his eyes downcast too. With his head tilted slightly and his distracted gaze returned to the floor, Deegan waited for the three to come to a standstill.
“It’s yourself that’s in it, then,” he said.
“You’ll be caught,” Minogue whispered. “All of you.”
Deegan didn’t seem to hear him. He shuffled forward.
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” he said. His leather soles crunched pieces of mortar. A vise had fastened about Minogue’s ribs. He wondered if he would be able to stop himself from crying out.
“From what I heard, it was our Mrs Howard doing all the talking in here. Did she tell you everything you wanted to know, now?” They had sent her all right, and they had sat listening.
“Except who killed Jane Clark,” said Minogue.
Deegan’s eyes suddenly twinkled, and he smiled broadly.
“Well now, can’t you figure that out yourself?”
By the tone, the menacing humour, Minogue knew. He stared into the folds of flesh in which Deegan’s eyes were almost completely hidden now.
“You did it.”
Deegan made a mock curtsy but his eyes stayed on the Inspector’s.
“At your service, Your Honour. Oh, the Howards are no different from any other of the well-to-do. They always need someone to do the dirty work. Well, there was a lot of money spent that night, let me tell you. And they’re still paying for it. Amn’t I right, Mrs Howard?”
“Shut up with that ‘Mrs Howard’ stuff!” Ciaran shouted. “I’m about sick and tired of it.”
Deegan put on a surprised express
ion and peered around at Ciaran.
“You’re right, Ciaran,” he sighed. “Begging your pardon and all.”
He turned back to the Inspector. Something about Minogue’s face brought the smile back to Deegan’s.
“After that night, sure, we had Naughton in the bag too. The way things worked out… Two for the price of one, you might say. We had plenty on our Tom after that night, so we did. So our Tom did his bit afterwards too-not saying he didn’t do well out of us. He did. And by us, I don’t mean the Howard clan.”
Naughton’s gun, Minogue thought. Had Deegan given him the gun?
“Well, I hear they caught up with poor Tom the other day,” Deegan went on. “And he blew his brains out? He always said he’d do that if and when they came for him. I didn’t set much store by that. The drink talking, says I. But that’s why he wanted the gun, I suppose, for when they came after him. His own, I mean-the Guards.” Deegan shook his head again and chuckled softly.
“The poor divil,” he added. He gave Minogue the stage wink which the Inspector remembered from their meeting in the pub. “Ah, but his heart was in the right place.”
Ciaran snorted and started to say something but bit back his words and folded his arms again. Over his thudding heartbeat, Minogue still heard Ciaran’s angry breaths in his nostrils.
“Take it nice and easy there, Ciaran,” Deegan murmured. “Sure the man has a right to his facts. Oh, but she was a bad egg, that one. Jane Clark. Oh yes. She put up a rare oul’ fight of it, so she did. But tell me,” he squinted into Minogue’s eyes. “Alo Crossan. How the hell did he get you into this mess? He’d sooner piss on a Guard than talk to one.”
Minogue didn’t answer.
“Crossan’s a wanker, so he is,” Deegan went on. “Matter of fact, he’s as bent as a ram’s horn.”
Minogue’s expression prompted Deegan to grin again.
“You didn’t know he’s a queer? That’s what he has the chip on his shoulder about. He’s bent, man. He was pally with that bitch. She told me she was going to get Alo and take everyone to court over this. Me, Mrs Howard here-oops, Sheila-the Howards…everyone. It was Dan gave her the clap, she tried to tell me, not the other way around. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”
Deegan choked off his mirth and threw a glance of knowing candour at the Inspector.
“But, sure, who can you depend on these days?” he said.
Ciaran took a step forward, unfolded his arms and shouted, “Look.” With a terrifying, unnatural speed, Deegan turned, brought up the pistol and shot him square in the chest. The shell flew across the room, Sheila Howard screamed and buckled, Ciaran fell back and Deegan kept firing. An ejected shell bounced off Minogue’s eyebrow as he wrenched himself over, the chair giving way under him. Deegan fired steadily, without pause. Through the deafening reports and the shouts, Minogue heard bodies land heavily on the cement.
Minogue came to rest on his side and opened his eyes. Smoke clouded and shook in the room as Deegan’s gun went off. Minogue’s cheek was on the cement. He saw legs and a hand, blood on the wall next to the floor. He was shouting himself now and he felt his bladder give way. Deegan stopped shooting and stepped toward the arms and legs. Minogue stopped shouting. Kathleen, he thought. His eyes were locked onto Deegan’s shoes. As long as the shoes faced away from him, he was still… Deegan was whispering hoarsely.
“Christ, Ciaran, you’re such a fucking iijit,” he gasped, breathing harder. “You poor bastard, you damn near ruined it all with her… And as for your mate, God forgive me, I warned you, don’t say that I didn’t, now…”
Deegan’s feet shuffled slightly as he fired down. One of the hands fluttered and Minogue went limp. Someone was moaning. Deegan’s shoes turned toward Minogue. The piss was warm over his legs, almost a comfort. The clarity of everything in the room, in the world, came to the Inspector as something utterly horrifying and familiar. A vision flared in his mind but it did not distract his utter attention from Deegan’s gun: the surly, grey-green sea, the stricken ridges of the Burren stretching toward the horizon under clouds that looked like massive slabs themselves. He saw the orange flare as the roof burst into flames impossibly reflected on every wave, the porpoises racing through the black waters of the estuary into the open sea…and, always, that face, the young stranger watching.
“As for you, you poor fuck, I don’t know…” Deegan murmured, and he pointed the gun at Minogue’s face.
“Don’t,” Minogue whispered.
The report seemed louder now since the lull in firing had intervened. Deegan went sideways with a grunt. Minogue tore open his eyes in time to see Deegan’s surprised face fall obliquely by him.
“Jesus, Jesus,” he heard Deegan wheeze from the floor.
Minogue tugged and drew up his knees to turn the chair but he could not. He turned his head as far as he could and saw Sheila Howard’s head resting against the wall. Her chin was jammed down on her breastbone and purple spots were on her face. Though her eyelids looked closed, he thought he saw a liquid glint by her eyelashes. Her arm was lying on her chest and she held the pistol loosely on her thigh. Where she had pulled up her jumper to get the gun out, Minogue saw a band of skin where blood spidered and dripped onto the floor.
Deegan made the wet, choking sound of a smoker summoning phlegm. Minogue heard his clothes rustle slowly along the floor, his huge limbs rubbing as he tried to rise. There was a glottal gasp and the rubbing stopped.
Cold, the floor. Minogue had driven his knee into the cement as he fell and it had that warm watery numbness he knew would turn to pain. An aura of blue smoke, moving slightly, circled the light bulb. He rested and breathed and watched the layers of smoke forming, sliding across one another and settling into stillness. The sting of cordite needled the top of his nose as he listened again. An irregular sigh of breathing turned to rasping breath and a short, faint squeal before returning fainter. Jesus, not now, he thought. Was one of them alive and getting up? Schemes flew into his mind, each desperate and quickly discarded. Elbow his way across the room and see if anyone had a penknife or a sharp tool. There must be some tool in the house, in the main rooms-but how to get over these bodies? He felt the cold only as a relief, grudging proof that he was still alive.
Then came a bubbly snore. He stared at Sheila Howard and saw her eyes open, staring across at his. A small new line came from the side of her mouth. She closed her eyes and coughed. A gout of blood oozed down her chin and her body made a spasm. She rolled onto her side and coughed again. Minogue froze and watched her creeping and scraping her way across the floor, heard her gurgling.
“Take it easy now,” he whispered and immediately realised how absurd the remark was. She took a deep, rasping breath and whispered in a tone so lucid that Minogue was startled.
“I’m bad, I can’t feel where…”
“If I can get free,” he started to say.
“I warned Ciaran about him.” She had squeezed out the words. She gave a wrenching cough and groaned. He closed his eyes. He heard something spill on the floor. He opened his eyes again. She seemed to be resting, her face down on the floor. He began yanking on the chair, scraping and kicking.
Minogue began to jerk the chair, each time sending shooting pains through his shoulder and chest.
Finally, as he rocked the chair, something gave way. The seat of the chair hung loose. Slowly he pulled in his elbows and he heard a spindle hit the cement with a hollow tock. His arms were weak but the cords were now slack. He stood crookedly and spindles from the chair-back fell to the floor. The blood rushed to his head as he stood and he felt the room come at him. Pain surging up from his legs took most of the room’s light with it and he lurched to the wall. As the room reappeared, it seemed to swell and the colours take fire. He glanced down at Deegan sprawled over Finbarr. Deegan’s head had fallen back and then sideways so that he seemed to be examining the dark stain on Finbarr’s jacket. His pistol was on the floor next to his hand. Finbarr lay curled up and half un
der Deegan. One arm was twisted behind, with the pool of blood spreading from under him.
Still struggling to shake the seat and legs of the chair free, he tottered toward the door. The light flared again and he leaned against a wall to fight the returning surges of dizziness. Suddenly he was gripped by fear. Who was sobbing like that, panting nearby? He turned, a shout already in his throat, expecting to see Deegan in the doorway. No one came. It was his own breath, he realised.
He elbowed away from the wall. Run. He was swaying now and the shapes were hanging and falling around the edges of his vision again. With the twine loose, he brought his right hand around. He stumbled toward the front door and pulled it open. He stopped in the doorway and gaped. The roof of the van was like a still lake reflecting the sky. A Ford Escort was parked alongside the van; Deegan’s, he guessed. His feet moved under him and he was on his way to the van’s door. A buzzer sounded as he pulled it open: keys in the ignition. He left the door hanging and rested his back against the panel. His palms flattened out on the cold metal and he felt his breathing ease. The buzzer filled the sky with its ripping squeak. The colours on the ground had already darkened and the bushes stood out thick against the milky sky. She might still be alive in there, he thought. He listened for sounds but heard only a solitary bird. He stared through the grove of trees and the overgrown bushes at the Burren heights. The stone seemed to be draining light from the sky. Was he going to pass out? He looked at the open door of the cottage. Should he go back for her?
Minogue turned when he heard the distant hum of a car over the tar macadam. He caught glimpses of a dark-coloured car coming at speed up the narrow road. The driver had not turned on his headlights, but Minogue had already spotted the silvered reflections of the sky on the roof-lights of the car. He stumbled back to the van, reached in and held his hand on the horn. He watched the wheels of the Garda car bounce as it came up the laneway, and he saw a face close up to the window.