As he left a gap, a voice tried to pipe up with a question but a combination of Hartigan's raised palm and the shushes from an unseen assembly silenced it.
Brigit had now moved to stand beside Paul. "What's going on?"
Paul didn't respond. Paschal Maloney had moved forward to take over speaking, squinting under the renewed barrage of flash bulbs. He reminded Paul of a lost child waiting for his mummy. When he spoke, there was a tearful edge to his voice.
"As can be seen from the horrific events unfolding throughout Dublin tonight, the rule of law appears to be breaking down in this city. There are riots in the streets, vigilantes are running amok, and the Gardaí and the government seem powerless to stop it. Myself and my colleague feel we have to speak out, as we no longer have any faith in the Garda Síochána. It has come to our attention that they have had a suspect in the deaths of Craig Blake and Councillor Baylor for over a day now, and yet they are doing nothing to apprehend him. The reason for this is that the man in question is formerly one of their own."
"Oh Christ," said Brigit, grabbing Paul's hand.
Hartigan took over speaking, looking directly into the camera. "Our question for the Gardaí is a simple one. Where is the man known as Bunny McGarry, and why has he not been apprehended?"
"Well," said Paul, "at least it won't be hard to get them interested now."
Chapter Forty
Gerry: I can now tell you that those reports of rioting up at the IFSC have been confirmed, and it has spread around the city. Our studio is just off O’Connell Bridge and as I look out the window I can see large crowds, and they’re getting bigger all the time. There have been repeated clashes with Gardaí and… from where we are, it seems as if the Gardaí are being forced to retreat by sheer weight of numbers.
Also… I can… it is with great sadness that I can announce that, within the last few minutes, sources have confirmed that Father Daniel Franks is dead. We don’t know any further details. There are unconfirmed reports of some form of raid on the Ark. We’ll let you know more as soon as we have it.
Paul was running.
His chat with Brigit had not gone well. He'd been afraid she'd get angry, now he wished she had. Instead, she'd had an air of frustrated resignation, like how he remembered the teachers in school sounding when talking to the weird kid. A low point had undoubtedly been 'you took a job from someone, and you don't even know their name?’ It had sounded a lot worse when she'd said it. Not going to the Gardaí with his suspicions about Hartigan had sounded even dumber. By the end of the brief chat they'd had while speed-walking down Dawson Street, he'd felt about as useful as a chocolate teapot.
Before they had parted company, Brigit had laid out a plan.
Whoever the Devil in the Red Dress was – and thankfully, he'd not referred to her as such to Brigit – she knew a lot about what was going on. His plan that morning, as much as he'd had one, was to be in the office this evening for the meeting and give her a report on what he'd witnessed Hartigan doing. Maybe that would have got him paid, even if it wasn't exactly what she had asked to know. Now, though – if Hartigan was trying to frame Bunny, then getting Paul to follow him must have been an attempt to derail that plan, mustn't it? Why else would she come to him? Whatever her intentions, the idea that he'd been hired by coincidence to follow a man who one week later would accuse Bunny of being a violent psychopath on national television seemed pretty damned unlikely. Whatever this was they needed answers, and Paul had one and only one way to get hold of his employer. They had a meeting scheduled at 8 pm and, come hell or high water, he now had to make it. The only problem being, there was a riot between where he was, and where he needed to be. According to the news, it already stretched from the International Financial Services Centre down to O'Connell Street, and it was spreading.
Brigit, for her part, had headed off running in a different direction, towards her car. Assuming Bunny's tracker was still up and running, it would start sending her its location within minutes.
Paul's lungs were hurting. He wasn't used to physical exercise, and running through the city centre was proving problematic. There seemed to be groups of what the press would no doubt call ‘youths’ heading to join the riot, others heading away from the riot, and a general mass of people just standing about gawping. The traffic around College Green was jammed up, and the air was a cacophony of car horns and frayed tempers. It was always a busy area, but the work to extend the Luas light rail system combined with people trying to get out of the path of trouble, meant gridlock. What taxis there were already had passengers, and after his first few attempts, Paul had given up trying to get one. Dublin taxi drivers knew deep down that they were the ones most in danger. Every last one of them had cruised by with their light on while some drenched and irate punter had screamed at them from a puddle. It was a perk of the job. There was a flipside to that coin too. Those self-same punters were currently running wild. It was rule one of any large-scale civil disturbance – taxis are always the first cars to be torched. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.
So Paul had run. He had got off the pavement for the sake of expediency, weaving around the stopped traffic instead. After they'd wrapped themselves around a slow moving tourist and nearly taken out a cyclist, he had let Maggie off the lead. She was running beside him, in front of him; always somewhere around. She seemed disinclined to wander away, and nothing got people to move out of your way faster than a big dog off a lead. It kicked directly at some primordial instinct in the human brain. Avoid the wolf.
As Paul ran down Westmoreland Street, he could see a crowd gathered on the south side of O'Connell Bridge. Gardaí were trying to close the bridge off with orange crowd-control barriers. It was unclear if they were trying to keep the riot contained on the north side, or to stop people joining it from the south side. The Gardaí didn't seem clear either. On a closer look, many of those in uniform looked barely old enough to shave. Trainees, most likely, pressed into action and trying to look like they had the first idea what they were doing. As Paul stood there panting heavily, a group of about twenty kids ran for the right side of the bridge, sparking an improvised game of British Bulldog. The Gardaí grabbed a couple, but most got through and then stopped to cheer and taunt the flailing police. Paul picked a spot on the left side of the bridge and ran towards it. He was slower than the kids, and one of the guards moved across to grab his right arm as he tried to jog by.
"Where do you think—"
The guard looked down at the warning growl from Maggie and then let Paul go, showing impeccable survival instincts. He'd stop somebody else, it didn't look like there'd be a shortage of opportunities any time soon.
One of the kids tried to high-five Paul as he trotted by, he left him hanging. His watch said 7:28 pm. He was going to be hard pressed to make the office. That was assuming he could get through this mess at all, and what a mess it was.
The crowds seemed to get more dense as Paul looked up the street. The main action appeared to now be at the north end of O'Connell Street. A van lay on its side in front of Easons, kids jumping up and down on top of it. Litter swirled about beneath people’s feet as the alarms of various shops warbled plaintively around them.
The work to extend the trams meant that the centre of the wide thoroughfare that was O'Connell Street was one long building site – or arsenal as it now appeared to be, complete with rubble aplenty, oh so convenient for the busy rioter on the go. In the distance, Paul could see a steady stream of missiles flying through the air. He guessed that the police line – what was left of it – was at the far end of the street, certainly there were no Gardaí on O'Connell Street itself. It reminded Paul of the throng of supporters heading to Croke Park that he occasionally had to pass through if he timed it wrong. Only here, they were more milling than “proceeding in an orderly fashion”. To his left, three blokes were hurling large paving stones at the front window of Easons. The spiderwebbing cracks in the reinforced glass were growing more pronounced all the tim
e. On the other side, a security guard looked on, appalled. Each time a paving stone hit, the crowd cheered.
Go on, thought Paul, steal a few books, ye morons, see if you can't learn something.
A middle-aged woman passed by him with arms full of clothes, still on their hangers. Her roar of 'We're taking our country back!’ was greeted by a smattering of cheers. If she is, thought Paul, she'll not have the receipt for it.
The most logical way to head back to the office would normally have been to head up Abbey Street, but as he looked down there he could see a higher density of people, and what appeared to be another line of Gardaí. Both sides were currently just looking at each other, but that would probably not last long.
From what he knew, he reckoned his best chance was to head up O'Connell Street and find a way out further along.
He passed the statue of O'Connell himself – his head, as always, covered in birdshit. Kids were boosting each other up onto his plinth to get a better view. Spray painted onto the bottom of it in raggedy letters was the phrase, 'We are the Púca'.
And, thought Paul, this is the day that never comes.
Chapter Forty-One
If Assistant Commissioner Michael Sharpe's voice got half an octave higher, Burns reckoned only dogs would be able to hear him. Personally, she was longing for that moment, as he was really getting on her tits. You'd swear he'd never been trapped in a building by a howling mob baying for his blood before. He was pacing up and down screaming into his phone at whatever poor sap at HQ had been unlucky enough to pick up. Sharpe seemed to be of the strong opinion that rescuing him from this building should be the Irish police force's number one priority. He was having difficulty getting others to see it that way.
"For the love of God, Cormac, we have women trapped in here."
He shot a look in Burns's direction; she made no attempt to hide her disgust. Oh, Michael, she thought, you fuck off and die right now. Wrapping your own cowardice up and trying to present it to the world as chivalry, you pathetic little man. Whatever happens from now on, know that this was the moment that I decided to kill your career if it's the last thing I do.
Her moment of self-doubt of a few hours ago had dissipated. Now she felt in control again. Not of the situation, that was spiralling out of control faster than an AA meeting in a brewery. No, she felt in control of herself again.
Burns turned to look out the window. The riot had happened fast, and had turned ugly even faster. The Gardaí simply weren't used to dealing with large-scale civil disturbances, and no training day in the world was going to prepare you for it. She'd watched it unfold from up here. Most of her colleagues had behaved with restraint, trying to maintain order. A few had lashed out in panic and had only inflamed the situation further. Guards and protesters alike had been dragged out, bleeding from head wounds. Eventually the sheer weight of numbers on the protesters' side had told, and the Gardaí had gone into full retreat. The entire square outside the building was now filled with people. Gathered around the doors below her was a large group who kept chanting over and over again, ‘we want Franks! We want Franks!’
Generally it was younger people, but there were some older ones in there too. Of course, around them were a ring of people with their cameras out, filming. It was the twenty-first century disease: nothing has really happened unless it's been recorded. Burns didn't doubt that the majority of those gathered below were probably sincerely and justifiably angry. They'd seen hope in what Father Franks represented, and it had been taken away. Maybe the Gardaí’s idiotic raid had only hastened his passing by a few days, but still, it was a monumental screw up. It wasn't those people that worried Burns, it was the others. She'd been a copper long enough to know that it was the conflict junkies, those filled with anger and looking for something, anything to aim it at – those were the one you had to worry about. Football hooliganism, terrorism, peaceful protests that descend into violence; it was always those men – and 99% of them were men – who turned up, tapped into the fear or anger of those around them, and proceeded to try and set the world on fire.
And the fire was spreading. From what scattered information they'd been able to glean, what had started here as an essentially political protest had spread fast. There were reports of wide-scale looting in O'Connell Street and down into the shops on Henry Street. It was always the same. The only thing stopping a certain group of people from trying to take whatever they could was the fear of getting caught. The Gardaí were now trapped in the perfect storm. A riot coming out of nowhere, in the middle of the summer holiday season, on the hottest day of the year. If only it had rained. Nothing stops a riot faster than rain.
Her phone rang.
"Burns."
"Sir, ahem, sorry – ma’am."
"What is it, Wilson?"
"How're things?"
"Super. Lovely view of the riot. Is this a social call?"
"No, ma’am. It's McGarry, ma’am."
"We've found him?"
"No. Mhm … Hartigan and Maloney, they just announced him on national television as our prime suspect and—"
"Oh, Christ Almighty."
"Yes, ma’am."
"Get to them – now. Find out where the hell they got that from."
"What if they—"
"I don't care, do it."
"Right."
Chapter Forty-Two
Paul and Maggie crossed the road to skirt around Clerys. The landmark store had been closed for a couple of years now, but the shops around it were garnering a lot of attention. On one side was a jewellery store, whose reinforced glass fronting was not designed to stand up the attentions of the mini JCB digger that had been hijacked from the building site. On the other side of that lay an Ann Summers shop. It was an interesting phenomenon that some lads who probably wouldn't have been seen dead in there normally, were more than happy to loot the place.
Paul felt the mobile in his back pocket vibrate. As he pulled it out, he realised that he had twelve missed calls from Phil. He answered unlucky thirteen.
"Howerya, Phil?"
"Where the bleedin’ hell have you been?"
"Sorry," said Paul, "I've been kinda busy."
As he spoke, Paul weaved his way around the mix of gawpers watching the show, and looters surveying their hauls. Two women seemed to be fighting over a large, pink box whose contents Paul couldn't see, but he could guess at.
"Yeah well that psychonaut Hartigan is trying to frame Bunny for all them murders."
"I know Phil, I saw it on telly too."
"Screw telly. I'm here."
"Wait, you're outside Hartigan's now?"
"Yeah!," said Phil, sounding exasperated. "Aren't we supposed to be finding out who the arsehole is knobbing?"
That was Phil, he was a lot of things, but a quitter wasn't one of them.
Two young fellas of no more than thirteen years of age ran by Paul, carrying a naked female mannequin between them. He didn't want to think about it.
"To be honest Phil, I've no idea what the hell is going on, but I'm heading back to the office now for that meeting with our client."
"But ye've no proof?"
"I don't care about that. Brigit reckons the client might know something about where Bunny is. It has got to be worth a shot."
"Does this mean Brigit is back in charge now?"
On some level, Paul resented the question. He didn't mind realising himself that he had no idea what he was doing, but he resented Phil recognising it. He was considering an appropriate answer when Maggie yelped behind him. He turned to see a scrawny bloke with a regrettable mullet and arms full of pint-sized brown cardboard boxes who, it appeared, had just trodden on her paw.
"What the—"
On Maggie's growl, the mullet showed admirable survival instincts by jumping backwards, dropping half of his merchandise in the process.
"Watch where you're going!" said Paul.
"Me?! The fuckin' cheek, your dog shouldn't be here."
Maggie bared h
er teeth at him.
"Want to tell her that?"
The mullet mumbled something under his breath and bent to pick up his boxes. Maggie growled. He froze, except for the slow movement of his head as he looked from Maggie to Paul.
"She's not a big fan of thieves," said Paul.
"Who are you calling a thief?"
Maggie's bark sent him staggering backwards, where he tripped over one of the discarded barriers and landed on his bony arse.
"Aw for— me back! That's assault, I'm going to have you."
"Yeah?" said Paul. "Good luck finding a policeman."
They moved on, those that had stopped to watch taking a step back to give Maggie room.
Paul put the phone back to his ear. "Sorry Phil."
"What the hell was that?"
"Bit of a discussion on riot etiquette."
"Riot? What riot?"
"Have a Google Phil, there's been some developments. It's the end of the world as we know it."
Paul's phone beeped in his ear. "Hang on." He pulled it back to see that Brigit was trying to get through to him. "I'll call you back."
He tapped to disconnect Phil.
"Brigit."
Paul had to pull the phone away from his ear as— "Cop yourself on, ye useless div! Pull your head out of your arse!"
"Christ."
Brigit's voice returned, unnervingly calm. "Sorry, that wasn't meant for you. It's like Mad Max trying to get off Capel Street."
"I can imagine," said Paul, and he could. Brigit's driving was erratic at best in normal circumstances, he imagined it really came into its own in a situation like this.
"That Hartigan fella you were following; where did you say he lived?"
The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2) Page 25