The Day That Never comes (The Dublin Trilogy Book 2)

by Caimh McDonnell

  Paul raised his hands, and winced at the pain in his midsection as he did it.

  "Look, I…" Paul indicated Maggie, "We, just fought off the guys who were trying to break in here."

  "I know," she said, nodding towards a screen beside her. "I saw on the CCTV. Doesn't mean you get to rob the place instead."

  "I just need to use your phone. Check my friend is OK."

  She shook her head emphatically. "Nobody is allowed behind the counter."

  "Look I just—"

  "I'm not even supposed to be here. The boss asked me to stay late to do the books. I'm not paid enough to fend off a bleeding horde and their rabid dogs."

  Paul looked down at Maggie. She was calmly sitting on her back haunches, licking at her paw.

  "Honestly, I just need to—"

  Paul stopped talking. His eye had wandered to one of the big screens on the wall, which was showing news coverage of the riots. Only it wasn't any more. Now it had switched to a shot of the road Paul barely recognised as Sandy Way. There was Hartigan's house in the background, or at least what was left of it. The fire brigade had two hoses on the rubble.

  An ashen-faced correspondent was delivering a report to camera. Paul had no idea what he was saying as the sound was down, but it didn't matter. As he spoke, a great big lanky idiot wandered by in the background, chatting to an EMT. He looked confused even by his usual standards, but judging by the wildly gesticulating arm movements, Paul guessed he was describing what had happened. The paramedic kept nodding her understanding while endeavouring to guide Phil towards one of the ambulances.

  Paul looked down at Maggie.

  "Let's go home."

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The fact that DSI Burns had managed to make it down the five flights of stairs to the lobby without at least twisting an ankle was a minor miracle. The lighting was minimal, and she had been taking steps two at a time in places. She crashed through the door to be greeted by one of the armed response units with his gun pointed towards her.

  "What the hell?" she said.

  He lowered his weapon with an apologetic wave and turned his gaze back towards the main doors, not that the doors were actually visible behind the hastily re-erected barricades of furniture in front of them. The irony wasn't lost on Burns – the barricades that one group of protesters had used for weeks to keep the Gardaí out – were now being used by the Gardaí to keep a different group of protesters out. The filing cabinets and sofas vibrated each time the improvised ram boomed against the doors behind them. Each blow was greeted with a cheer from outside.

  Aside from DSI Burns, the lobby contained the two armed response guys, Livingstone the head Casper, Sergeant Paice and Assistant Commissioner Sharpe. It was the first time Burns had been in the same room as that group since the meeting in the Portakabin when they'd started this debacle. She'd watched it go up in flames about an hour ago. Sharpe was holding a megaphone in his hands.

  "DSI Burns, please return upstairs."

  Burns heard the door open behind her, and the building’s other occupants filing in.

  “None of you should be down here.”

  "What’s the plan here, sir?" said Burns.

  Boom.

  Sharpe turned away from her and put the megaphone to his lips.

  "This is the Gardaí. The actions you are taking are illegal. Disperse immediately."

  Boom.

  Burns threw her hands up in the air. "Oh, for God’s sake."

  "The situation is under control."

  Boom.

  "Is it fuck."

  "I am in command here."

  Boom.

  "Fine. I resign."

  "What do you suggest, Burns? We all find a cupboard to hide in?"

  Boom. A cracking noise as metal started to give way.

  "It can't be a worse idea than this."

  Burns moved forward and started dragging one of the sofas away.

  "What the hell are you doing?"

  Boom.

  "Stop that!"

  Sharpe put his hand on her arm and tried to pull her away. She shrugged him off.

  "Lay a hand on me again, Michael and you'll be glad there are doctors here."

  Boom.

  She pushed the sofa out of the way with her arse while trying to reach around and gain some purchase on the large filling cabinet.

  "Officers, restrain this woman."

  Boom. Burns could feel it vibrate through her, now.

  She turned to the two armed response officers moving tentatively towards her. "What’s the end game here, lads?" Burns pointed towards the door. "They're getting in here soon, and then what? You're not going to be the men who open fire on unarmed civilians, I know you're not. That's not what you signed up for, is it?"

  Boom.

  The two men glanced nervously at each other.

  "Let’s see if a bit of talking might do the trick, what do you reckon?"

  A cry of ‘let her try!’ came from the group by the stairs.

  Boom.

  The barricade behind her rattled.

  "It's ‘shit or get off the pot’ time, lads."

  The younger man looked at the older, who paused and then nodded.

  Boom.

  "Good," said Burns. "Now give me a hand here."

  "This is all going in my report," said Sharpe.

  They moved the sofa and the filing cabinet to one side.

  As the filling cabinet moved, there was a cheer from outside.

  The late evening light spilled in across the floor and the red sunset, peeking over the heads of the crowd, momentarily dazzled Burns. She shielded her eyes and looked into the faces – dozens upon dozens of faces. It oddly reminded her of the day early in her career when she'd done crowd control duty at Páirc Uí Chaoimh for the Munster hurling final. The shattered glass in the large windows warped their faces.

  Burns raised her hands.

  "Wait! Please!"

  Boom!

  The desk in front of her bucked as the door behind it buckled yet further.

  "Ah for—"

  Unsteadily Burns climbed up onto the desk, leaning on the cabinet for support.

  "Wait, please, hang on!"

  Boom!

  The desk bucked violently.

  Burns looked down to see Delacourt shoving the megaphone into her hand.

  She held it up and pushed the button.

  "Wait, hang on, please – we're going to let you in!"

  The ram clattered against the door at half its previous ferocity and then ceased. A clamour of voices rose up. Burns put her hands out again.

  "Please, just give me a second."

  From up here, she could see the faces of the whole crowd spread out before her, some straining to see who was talking.

  "My name is Susan Burns, and I'm a civil servant—"

  "Fucking cop," came a voice.

  "Yes, one of them too. My ma was a teacher and my dad ran the local shop down in Balmullet, Waterford, where I'm from. I cut my teeth catching heroin-dealing scumbags, down in Limerick."

  "They're all scumbags down there", said another voice.

  "Feck off, ye jackeen prick!" said Burns.

  This got a few laughs and a small cheer.

  Burns moved on quickly. She pointed at the older of the two armed response officers. "This is Pete; he's married, big fan of Formula One and DIY. His eldest made her confirmation this year."

  She pointed at the younger. "This is Keith; he just became a dad and he's getting married at Christmas."

  "Dirty bastard," came an older voice with a strong Dublin accent. A few laughs.

  Burns smiled. "He's also a big fan of Spurs."

  "Dirty bastard," repeated the same voice, to a louder peal of laughter.

  "We're ordinary people, just like you, and—"

  "Where's Father Franks?", from a female voice located somewhere near the front.

  Burns took a deep breath. "Father Franks is dead."

  A chorus of boos a
nd shouts erupted from the crowd. The table wobbled under her as the crowd at the front pushed against the doors. A bottle flew from the back and smashed against the top of the window, raising indignant hollers from those at the front as glass rained down upon them.

  "Please, please" shouted Burns, "just—"

  "You shot him… fucking pigs… fascists!"

  The armed response guys shifted their feet nervously behind her.

  "Please!" screamed Burns, holding a finger up. "Give me one minute, just one and then we'll let you in – I promise."

  Shouts and shushes competed with each other until the din had died down enough.

  “These guys" said Burns, pointing at the two men behind her, "got ordered to come in here but they never fired a shot."

  The older of the two removed the ammunition clip from his MP7 sub-machine gun and held it aloft, his younger colleague followed suit.

  "Father Franks was ill," – some boos rose up again – "he was ill, and the shock of all this killed him. It's fucked up, but that's what happened."

  Boos were growing, Burns decided to plough on. "Look, you're right to be angry. This raid should never have happened. It was political bullshit. Somebody should answer for that. Keith and Pete didn't decide to do it – they were ordered to. Remember who they are. When a drug dealer is off his face on his own supply and waving guns about, these are the boys we send for. Do you want that job? I don't."

  There were a few shouts and some murmuring from around them.

  "You're angry, I get it. I'm angry. And not just at this. For a decade we've been told we've to all suck it up, tighten our belts. We all know what Franks said was true. Certain people played fast and loose with our futures and screwed us all, screwed whole generations. It just isn't right. Those to blame need to face justice. That's what Franks wanted. But murder isn't justice. Whoever is behind this Púca nonsense, I guarantee you, it's just some psychopath. You're not his cause, you're his excuse. That's not justice, and this," she said, casting her hands wide, "this – isn't justice. I promise you, nobody in this building is the problem, and what you're doing now isn't the solution. You do this, and it is easy for them to label you as mindless thugs. This city is tearing itself apart, and it hurts all of us. Now… we're going to open these doors and half a dozen of you can come up and see Father Franks's body, God rest his soul. The doctors are here, you'll see the evidence, all right? The rest of you – please – go home. There's been a lot of damage done tonight, let's say enough is enough."

  She stopped and looked out at the crowd. There were small discussions breaking out. A few people at the back appeared to be wandering off into the night.

  Burns turned and took Delacourt's proffered hand to help her down.

  "Very well done, DSI Burns."

  "We'll see," she said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've a murder investigation to run."

  Burns turned to the armed response officers and indicated the barricades. "Can you move all this?"

  They nodded.

  "And if someone could give them a hand?"

  The ambulance team and a couple of others moved forward. One of the ombudsman's assistants grabbed the other side of one of the sofas from the younger of the armed response officers.

  "Jesus, Keith, that was close."

  "Who the fuck is Keith? My name is Padraig and I bleedin' hate Spurs."

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Monday 7 February 2000 – Afternoon

  "For your penance I give you six Our Fathers and three Hail Marys. May the grace of God go with you."

  "And also with you. God bless you, Father."

  "And you, Mary. Tell James I was asking for him."

  "I will."

  Father Daniel Franks slid the panel closed on the confessional booth to his right and took a deep breath. He could feel a migraine building, and it was going to be a bad one. He tried to relax the muscles in his jaw, as the GP had said that might help. He rolled his head around his shoulders and listened to the static of tension crackling through his neck. He must be nearly done, Monday afternoon confession was never that busy, then he could go and have a lie down. He took a sip from the bottle of water that he'd remembered to bring with him, as he heard the shuffle of movement in the booth to his left.

  He momentarily shifted the rosary beads from his right to his left hand and wiped his sweaty palm on his vestments. He should maybe go back and see the GP after all, see about those tablets. Another deep breath, and then he sat back and slid open the small door to his left.

  "Hello, my child, you're very welcome to confession today. May God be with you."

  A familiar voice he thought he'd never hear again rang out. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned like a mad whore in a barrel full of mickeys."

  "Christ, Bunny."

  "Ah, Jesus, Padre, how'd you know it was me?"

  Franks shifted nervously in his seat. "Your disrespectful attitude is rather distinctive."

  "Sure, isn't that one of the sins I've come to confess."

  "Well. It's good to… I'm glad you've come back. I've not seen you at Mass since…" he left it hang there, he couldn't think of anything else to say.

  "Yeah," said Bunny, "I sort of knocked the whole Mass thing on the head."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Would you… would you like me to hear your confession?"

  A pause grew between them.

  "Is riding still a sin, Padre?" asked Bunny.

  "If by that you mean sex outside the sanctity of wedlock," said Father Franks, "then yes, it is."

  "I thought they'd changed it?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure? I'm sure I read something."

  "Ara, stop pissing about, Bunny." Father Franks knew this dance all too well; the deflection, using humour as a defence mechanism. Classic Bunny.

  "I'm serious. Didn't the Pope say something? You should check. They might not be keeping you up-to-date."

  "The Ten Commandments are written in stone, Bunny, not crayon. Now, can I help ye with something?"

  "I've got plenty to confess, Father. In the last few days alone I've stolen, threatened and blackmailed. I've helped to break a good man, and I've allowed a bad one to walk away from his sins for my own purposes."

  "I see."

  "How long has it been now – three years?"

  Franks did the sums in his mind, had it really been that long? "Aye, I guess it must be about that all right."

  "After what happened… I couldn't find God here anymore. It just wasn't… I'd real, serious penance to do, so I set up a hurling team. Something to grab hold of some young fellas early, get 'em off the streets. We've enough bad men in the world."

  "That we do," conceded Franks, "it's a noble cause."

  Franks had heard about it. He'd been so glad. Knowing Bunny was out there doing something positive with himself had assuaged his own feelings of guilt, if only slightly.

  "Works, too," said Bunny. "Makes a difference, a real difference mind, in the lives of these young fellas."

  "I'm sure it does."

  "And now they're taking it all away."

  "I'm… I'm sorry to hear that."

  "Some moneyed-up pricks have gone out and bought themselves a council and hard fucks to the working man. "

  "That's a great shame."

  "I've pulled every trick in the book, Danny, every fecking one, and it isn't going to be enough. In two hours, it'll be over. That club…"

  Bunny's voice cracked slightly in the darkness. Franks could hear the soft rustle of movement.

  "It's the one truly good thing I've done. After, after what we did…"

  The silence reached out between them. Franks ran the beads through his fingers. Wrapping them around the knuckle until it turned white.

  "D'ye know something?" said Bunny.

  "What?"

  "No disrespect to the lad, but Jesus had it easy."

  "I don't think you've read your Bible in a while, Bunny."

  "I mean, everyone did, back in those
days. Himself – he made thirty-three, that was a pretty good innings in those days. Life was tough, sure, but it wasn't long."

  "True enough."

  "They'd hardly enough time to really make a mess of things. Whereas today, neither of us is a picture of health yet we'll probably make eighty. People say life is short, but it's not. It's long, so damn long – ye can't help but make a mess of it. ‘Tis like roulette. You sit at that table for an hour, you might just come away a winner. You sit there long enough, and the house always wins."

  "That's a very grim outlook you've got there, Bunny."

  "When you've seen what I've seen, Padre…"

  In the silence, Franks could hear a hoover in the distance. Mrs Byrne must be doing the altar. You couldn't stop that woman from hoovering.

  "Do you still think about it?" asked Bunny, his voice soft and low.

  "Think about what?" The silence bloomed like a bloodstain between them. It had been a stupid question that didn't warrant an answer. Images came back unbidden to his mind. When he spoke next, his voice came back in a whisper. "Every day."

  "So do I. I mean…" Bunny's voice faltered. "It's the kind of thing that… not so much thinking, y'know. It’s more… I suppose what I'm saying is that ‘tis worst at night. I get dreams."

  Franks said nothing.

  "We did the right thing," added Bunny.

  Those words hung in the air. Franks could neither agree nor refute them.

  "He'd have done it again, you know he would."

  Franks finally found his voice again. "The right to judgement belongs to our Lord alone."

  "God wasn't available at the time. We had to make do with me."

  "Why're you here Bunny? Is it to discuss our past sins?"

  "Sin is a funny thing, isn't it, Danny? Some people, they see a man – a councillor no less – who goes to Mass every day, gets himself confessed once a week, they think ‘sure, isn't he a right holy roller, a pure soul.’ Me, I see that fella and I think, ‘there's a man with a great big black sin that he just can't shift.’”

  "I've a queue of people outside, Bunny. Maybe you could come back tonight."

  "There's no time, Father. In exactly…" a faint light offered a brief splutter of illumination in the other side of the booth, "one hour and fifty-two minutes, that holy roller is going to walk into a council chamber and wipe away my one good deed. I'm not prepared to let that happen. For what its worth, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that last year yer man was put under surveillance. I'm sorry they reported that he comes here every week. Of all the churches… Christ, what are the odds? I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I know that, but I do."