by Ken Bruen
He remembered drinking in the men’s room with the soldiers. He remembered them slapping his back and telling him jokes. He remembered laughing out loud and passing the bottle.
Now he couldn’t remember much of anything else.
He had come to Ireland with the twins because Marty Ryan had told him it was important they travel together. Dugan remembered sitting next to them on the flight over. He remembered joking with them. He remembered going through customs together and taking the cab from the airport.
They had separated once they were in the bar, Dugan going off to the men’s room with the soldiers while the twins drank at a table. Dugan couldn’t remember when they had left or where they had gone. He couldn’t remember leaving the men’s room.
He knew he was on Gardiner Street because the cab had dropped them off in front of the bar. Dugan remembered thinking the old neighborhood always looked the same and that he was glad to be done with it.
A door slammed shut somewhere upstairs. “That’ll be him,” the woman said.
Dugan was feeling cramped in the shoulders. He tried to move from the chair and realized his hands were tied behind his back.
“What’s this?” he muttered.
A door opened at the top of the stairs. The woman gave a nod at the stocky man.
Dugan thought he recognized the woman. “Mary?” he said.
She didn’t flinch.
Dugan looked to his left and saw a blue plastic tarpaulin covering something on the floor. He belched and could taste vomit. He gagged from the taste.
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. Dugan looked up toward the sound. The woman pulled a string cord and a bright light filled the room. Dugan turned his head from the light.
He heard whispers. He tried to open his eyes and felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness.
He was back on the flight with the twins. They were joking about being with the girl, Catherine, the night after Dugan had told them about her. They had stopped by to chat her up and learned her cousin had left early. She had cab fare to get home, but they gave her a lift instead.
“She went without question,” one of the twins had told Dugan. “Like we were sent from heaven saving her six bucks.”
“We spent the night taking turns,” the other twin had bragged. “First me, then Sean, then me again. This way, that way. She finally cried when she was fecked raw around sun-up. We did save her the cab fare, though. And you were right, until she cried, she purred like a feckin’ kitty cat.”
Dugan remembered telling them, “I told you so.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Dugan heard a deep voice say. He opened his eyes and saw a hulking shadow at the foot of the stairs.
The huge man had a thick red beard and looked familiar. He leaned over the woman and kissed her forehead.
“Rusty?” Dugan said. “What’s going on? Why am I tied?”
“You’re to answer for Catherine,” the woman said.
Dugan was confused. “Catherine?”
“My niece.”
“Mary?” Dugan said. “Mary Collins.”
The woman took a drag from her cigarette.
“I’d’ve liked to be here earlier,” the big man said.
“The soldier boyos took care of it,” the woman said. “They were happy to help.”
Dugan saw she was still holding the long sleek boning knife. “What’s the knife for, Mary?”
“You,” the big man replied.
“But it’s easier when the bones are popped from their joints first,” the woman said. “Why I waited for Rusty here. He caught a late flight.”
Dugan turned to the big man. “Rusty, what the hell is this? What’s going on?”
“The other two had something to offer, the boyos took mercy and shot them in the head,” the woman said. “Cutting them up afterwards isn’t a problem. It’s only when you’re keeping them alive so they can feel it does it make a difference. That’s when it helps, the bones are popped or pulled from their joints first.”
The big man grabbed one end of the blue tarpaulin and whipped it off of two dead bodies. Dugan saw it was the twins laying across one another. He saw a hole in the back of one head before he saw the one with the mustache had been shot through the eyes. Dugan gagged twice before he was sick on himself.
The woman was standing now, holding the boning knife in one hand. She held a pint of Guinness in the other. She sipped from the pint before handing it off to the big man.
“Oh, God have mercy!” Dugan whimpered. “God have mercy.”
“Those two talked about what they did to my niece after they had too much to drink,” the woman said. “The wankers went back to the bar and told it to the wife of the man they beat for you and Marty Ryan, thought they could double-team her, too, from the shite you’d said about her. They tried to feck with her head, told her they’d beat her husband again unless she did what they wanted. They weren’t very bright, the twins. It all got back to Rusty here. From the woman herself. Nancy, is it?”
Dugan was shaking his head.
“The boyos here saw the knife and gave you up in a flat second,” she added. “Everything you told them, how we sent her off because she was tainted, you fucking shite. You didn’t have a clue, but you felt like talking, eh?”
“It’s what I was told,” Dugan said. “I swear it, Mary. I was told she’d been raped by felons from Mountjoy and lost her mind from it.”
“She was,” the woman said. “And she was affected, but we sent her away so she’d never have to hear the name of the place again. Never have to see it.”
“I’m sorry,” Dugan cried. “I’m sorry, Mary.”
“Herself asked for permission to bring you back here,” the big man said. “Or you’d’ve been killed in New York. Marty Ryan offered to take you out himself.”
“It was only once,” Dugan pleaded. “Just the one time, I swear. I was pissed. I was fuckin’ berco.”
“Well, you’re tainted now,” the big man responded.
The woman said, “The question is, you feckin’ piece of shite, is will you purr like a cat when Rusty pulls your bones from their joints, or will you wait until I cut you to feckin’ pieces?”
PART III
HEART OF THE OLD COUNTRY
WRONG ’EM, BOYO
BY RAY BANKS
Welcome to Dublin, sir.”
“Get tae fuck.”
It was an hour from Edinburgh to Dublin, all cramped up in the belly of a Ryanair with attendants who didn’t bother to show us the escape doors. One of ’em had the pure blarney shite running free from his puss. I could tell he was a poof, likes. Graham Norton type, y’ken?
Then the cunt of a cab driver, same old shite. A leprechaun with fuckin’ eyebrows on his cheeks. He skinned us out of most of my funny money and dropped us off on O’Connell Street. Best Western, the Dublin Royal. I wondered how royal a three-star could be, got my answer when I saw my room: not fuckin’ very. I dumped the Head bag and switched on the telly. Couple of channels, they wasn’t even speaking fuckin’ English. I lit a Bensons and cracked open the bottle of duty free. Jack Daniel’s. Took a swallie and put the bottle on the bedside cabinet. Looked out of the window, felt sick. Call this culture? Princes Street, that’s culture. This is a motorway with a couple of fuckin’ statues of nobodies.
This country, man. I’d been here before, but that was thirty years ago. Hiding behind a wall in Belfast, trying not to shite my uniform. I had a gun then, mind. Thanks to yer man Bin Laden, the best I could manage this time was a Stanley the Big Yin give us when I was sixteen.
Big Yin. His name was Connolly, like the other Big Yin. And if the comedian had carried on drinking and being funny instead of marrying that blond piece, he’d have looked like our Big Yin too. Must admit, I fancied a wee shot at her when she was in that leotard in Superman 3, likes, but when I found out she was a head-shrinker, Wee Shug wilted.
Big Yin was the reason I was here. Him and a mick called Barry Phelan. A bunch
of old scores to be settled and me buff apart from the Stanley.
It didn’t matter. A solid blade was all a Boyo needed.
Walking with Big Yin, him finding his feet slow. We was going down the chipper on Broughton Road. He had a winter coat on and his breath came out in short blasts of smoke. Ice on the pavement and I had to guide him over it.
“You got a name for us, Shuggie?” he said.
“Aye. Barry Phelan.”
“Away, I thought he was dried up.”
“That’s what I heard, Mr. Connolly. A man with a gun in his mouth doesn’t lie.”
“Good lad.”
I got the name from Lee Cafferty, a bristling big-fuck suedehead who’d been the leader of a gang of sawn-offs. This bunch of pricks had turned over a card game behind one of Big Yin’s massage-and-handjob places down London Road. And for a hard cunt, Cafferty was quick to piss his tartan boxers. Mind you, when you thumb back the hammer of a revolver, it’s like St. Peter slammed the book shut. Sorry, auld son, Big Cat says y’ain’t coming up.
“What d’you want done?” I said to Big Yin.
He coughed, shook his head. After he cleared his throat, he said: “I want the cunt deid is what I want, Shugs. Bastard thinks he can jump the pond and do over one of my places?” Big Yin pulled a face. His cheeks went hollow and in the glow of the streetlamp I could see right through the skin. “I want his balls. You do that for us, son. You go over there and you bring us back his fuckin’ balls while they’re still bleeding.”
“Okay.”
We went into the chipper. Big Yin got a poke of chips drowned in vinegar. About the only thing he could taste. He told the plooky lass behind the counter to keep the change and I escorted him out. The wind coming strong up the hill, I had to hold onto Big Yin’s arm as we went back to his house. He struggled with the chips, dropped a couple. I got him back home, took off his coat, and got him settled in his chair.
“You want a nightcap, Mr. Connolly?” I said.
“I widnae say no, Shugs.”
Poured him a double-dram of Glenlivet and sat the glass on the table next to him. He turned on the telly and caught the beginning of a Minder repeat. When I left, I could hear him humming the theme tune.
That night, I sat in the dark because my eyes hurt. I tanned a bottle of brandy, listened to Johnny Cash, and held the Stanley Big Yin had given us. I didn’t need light to know what was on there. My finger traced it out: “Shuggie BTTE”
Boyo To The End.
Aye, that’d be right. I slipped the Stanley into my pocket, went to pack my bag.
“You’re kidding us, you’re fuckin’ kidding us.”
“Honest, Shuggie. I widnae kid yez around on this, man.”
“You couldn’t have telt us before I got on the fuckin’ plane? Jesus Christ, man.”
“I didnae get a chance, Shugs. I only found out this morning. You got a black tie?”
“Fuck yersel’,” I said, and slammed the receiver back on the cradle. Missed, slammed it again. I could still hear Keith whining at the other end. Smacked the phone so hard, the speaker part came off in my hand. Left it at that and saw a young mick punk waiting to use the phone. Said, “Fuck you staring at?”
“You what?” he said.
I walked over to him. “How do I get to Mount Jerome?”
“You get him drunk enough, he’ll do anything.” The punk rolled his shoulders, reckoned hisself a piece of work with the nose ring and that stud in his eyebrow.
“Fuck’s that, eh? Irish sense of humor?” I grabbed the fucker by the arm, hauled him into the phone box. Pressed him up against the glass. “How’s about a Scottish joke, then? This smart cunt’s got no nose. How does he smell?”
“Wait a second—”
“He fuckin’ doesn’t.” I pulled the nose ring out, took the nostril with it. He tried to clap his hand over the ragged wound, but I held him fast.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said. “I’m just kidding around, man.”
“Stuff it up your arse. Tell us where the fuckin’ cemetery is or I’ll pan yer cunt in.”
“You get the bus from up the road,” he said. When he talked, he spat.
“Which one?”
“Sixteen. Get off at Harold’s Cross.”
I pushed him to the floor of the box. Pulled my hood up and wandered across the road to the bus shelter. Lit a Bensons, watched the white part get spotted with rain. The punk found his feet and took off. Run, Forrest, run.
Barry Phelan. Some radge bastard had already done the job for me, and His name was God. A stroke knocked Phelan into the Beaumont and a heart attack finished him off in the wee small hours. A shock for all concerned. Mostly me. And if I could take the Big Cat to task, I fuckin’ would. Just like Him to cheat a trying man, ken what I mean?
My man Keith was supposed to keep his ear to the ground. He was supposed to tell us where Phelan was when I got here. I’ll sort him out before I go. Useless fucker. Wouldn’t be surprised he got hisself hooked up with the wrong crowd, ken? It was getting that way. People didn’t have respect for tradition no more.
The Bensons tasted rank. I chucked it into a puddle as I saw the bus coming.
What’s the difference between an Irish wedding and an Irish funeral?
One less drunk.
Aye, I’m a funny cunt. And I needed something to lighten my mood when I got to Mount Jerome. The place was a sea of gray, man. Tombstones, creepy bastard crypts and whatsit … mausoleums? An Irish funeral in the middle of a cloudburst. Talk about fuckin’ maudlin. I walked through the stones, making sure I trod on as many of they dead cunts’ heads as I could, sidled up against a tomb, and watched all they bastards in their drookit Sunday best watching God’s lad go through the motions.
Ashes to ashes. Funk to funky.
The mourners, they was mostly family. I could tell because they was ugly bastards. Skinny, suits hanging off them like they was three sizes too big. The women, small and stodgy, hidden away behind tatty black veils. Professional fuckin’ widows, ken? And it pished down throughout. I spat at the ground, put my hand in my pocket, and wrapped my fingers around the Stanley.
Barry Phelan’s balls, they was under that screwed-down lid. Unless I shot over there, jumped on the coffin, and pried it open with my bare hands, Phelan’s balls were going to be worm food along with the rest of him. That wasn’t any big deal. Bollocks was bollocks. There was bound to be another lad round here who I could pass off as the real deal. And I saw him as soon as the coffin went under.
He came to me, hand outstretched. A tall lad with a gut and white hair. “Tommy Phelan.”
I shook. His hand like a wet fish supper in my grip. I read somewhere that a man’s scrotum and nose kept growing as he got older. If that was the case, then this Tommy Phelan must’ve had knackers the size of watermelons, I’m telling you, because that nose made him look part toucan. “Hugh Sutton,” I said. “Mates call us Shug.”
“You’re Scottish,” he said.
And you’re a fuckin’ genius. “Aye, fae Edinburgh, likes,” I said, getting coarse with the cunt. He wanted Scottish, he’d get Scottish. “I heard Barry kicked it, likes, so I thought I’d mosey over and check it out.”
“You knew him?”
“I ken Lee Cafferty.”
“Lee’s a good man.”
Lee’s a dead man. I shot him in the crown, left him sticking to the lino like a fly in shite. “He certainly is.”
“You’ll be coming to the wake,” said Tommy. A statement.
“No can do. Got to be back in Edinburgh.”
“Sure, you can stay for a wee while. I’d be offended if you didn’t.”
“Ach, if you put it like that,” I said, “I’d be glad to.”
An Irish wake, like a Scottish wedding, Hogmanay and Burns Night all rolled into one. A cold spread on a long table up against one wall that’d hardly been touched. Empty bottles that had. We was upstairs in this place called The Lantern. Phelan sitting across from us, a half-ta
nned bottle of Bushmills and a pint of Guinness next to it. Talk about fuckin’ stereotypes, man, the auld lad was half in his cups and two sheets to the wind about an hour after we got there. He had a Players between his fingers. I didn’t ken they still made ’em.
“What do you think of Dublin?” he asked me. But like most soused micks, he didn’t wait for an answer. His face screwed up and he leaned forward, rattling the table. The black stuff didn’t move. “It’s not Ireland,” he said. “It’s England’s version of Ireland. You know you can’t smoke in pubs over here now? Legislated. We’re losing our culture bit by bit.”
“Aye.” Thinking, Smoking’s part of your culture, pal?
“Sure, you know all about that, don’t you? I been to Edinburgh, I seen what they did to that place. Shops on Princes Street all full of See-You-Jimmy wigs, am I right? Fuckin’ English screwing you out of your heritage. Tourist tat. Am I right?”
“Aye, you’re right.”
“Dublin’s the same. Temple Bar, I was down there the other week, it’s full of coffee shops. Theme pubs. Feckin’ yanks coming over here claiming they have ancestors from the feckin’ bogs. You know what I say? I say feisigh do thóin féin, that’s what I say.”
“Gesundheit,” I said.
A young lad came over to the table. He was stringy, had a mean look about him. He put a bottle of clear liquid on the table and Phelan’s eyes lit up like a cheap fruit machine. “Now that’s more like it. You’ll join me, so.”
“I’m all right, Mr. Phelan.”
“My brother died, the name’s Tommy, and you’ll join me. Won’t he, Barry?”
“Course he will,” said the stringy lad. He took a seat. I knew he was a wanker, because he turned the chair and straddled it.
“My nephew’s just come back from your neck of the woods,” said Tommy. He poured three deep shots from the bottle. “Barry, this is Shug. He’s an Edinburgh lad.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said. But his eyes said different. His index finger ran down the side of the shot glass. Brown flecks under the nail. “It’s done, Tommy.”
“There’s a good lad. You take care of it yourself?”