by philip boyle
The flame on the candle blew out. A door open somewhere.
‘Yeah, I believe in that.’
‘Well, that’s good. I have my kids. My sister. I love them, I hate them sometimes. But, hey.’
‘But what about yourself?’
‘Myself? This is myself. Now, tonight. And next month I’ll have another few hours to myself. That’s as much as I can expect. Hope for.’
There was another urgent question on his lips but he couldn’t find the words.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Is there nobody that would – love – you? You.’ He blushed as how stupid he sounded.
‘Me?’ She laughed. She looked down at her blue summer dress and the sandals on her feet. ‘A man, you mean? Oh, they come along like buses sometimes. Infrequently and never when you expect. The trick is not to expect or to wait.’
He helped her on with her coat. He waited with her for a taxi although she protested. He shook her hand before she climbed into the back of the car. And he watched her disappear.
The resident’s bar stayed open just for him. It was nearly five when the concierge closed the door behind him. Across the lobby to the lift and he almost didn’t see Harding sitting in the chair near the front door. The detective was asleep, legs crossed, his head sliding down the edge of the chair, scuffed brown brogues twitching. He thought of Linda, lights lost in the night, back in her modest mediocrity. He almost wished he was with her now. In the seconds that followed he thought of doing everything and did none of them. Something made the policeman open his eyes. And Eddie was trapped again.
CHAPTER 23
The lost policeman. Scratch Brown wakes up to his last day on earth Do not disturb. Too late for that, thought Eddie. Harding was almost asleep again. The cup was on the verge of toppling, and Eddie was sure the coffee would spill over the edge. Again the thought of escape. To what, from what, for what? He looked over at his bag, the clothes on the floor, the unkempt sheets, his own smell in the room. A lonesome bark from an early morning dog. He looked at his jailor, his confessor, his pretend friend, wondered if he carried a weapon, this Irish exile, with the visible mark of a lost wedding band on his left hand. They sat on opposite sides of the room, Eddie nearest the door. He could hear the cleaners in the corridor, envied their lowly lives, hoped they’d knock on the door and interrupt this unfolding tragedy.
The coffee did indeed spill, onto the detective’s hand and he woke with a start. His eyes were drawn to the dawning light of the window behind him. He stretched, yawned, remembered where he was and studied Eddie with bloodshot eyes.
‘You know why I’m here.’ A question or a statement, Eddie wasn’t quite sure.
‘I thought you always came in pairs?’
‘Only happens in books. Anyway, resources. Plus the fact that I don’t consider you dangerous.’
‘No? I am pleased.’
‘Although dangerous things seem to happen around you. That why you came here?’
Eddie thought for a second. ‘Yes.’
‘I don’t blame you. You should have reported the incident with the gun.’
Eddie thought for more than a few seconds this time. ‘Nothing happened. In the end. He was just a kid. Probably got the wrong person. He didn’t look like he knew what the fuck he was doing. How did you find me?’ Harding ignored the last question, as if insulted by it.
‘Bit of a coincidence if it was the wrong person. Which it wasn’t.’
‘He left the gun there?’ Eddie was curious while not wanting to know. ‘why did he do that?
‘And you saw his face? Eddie?’
How do they always find me?
Scratch Brown surfaced from the depths at two in the afternoon. Not late for him, he rarely saw the point in the morning, served no purpose. He opened the plastic sheet curtains and surveyed the room he had never seen in daylight before. This was Perry’s place so he better keep it tidy. Perry didn’t have a fucking clue. About anything. He was in the country with some posh fucking piece of tit and asked Scratch to ‘mind’ the place. Scratch didn’t mind at all.
He saw the helmet in the hallway, lying there like a stupid dog. Fly buzzing, his head still buzzing, body tingling, no need for any fix now, maybe later, fuck, the fucking high he still had on. Hard on, the man’s face, Eddie Brogan’s face close up, shadowed, sweating, Jesus, the trigger jamming, what was that all about? The gun is gone by now, long gone, police, beggar, road sweeper, who the fuck cared, prints meant nothing, no record of his on file. And his face? That fucker wouldn’t want to remember, too busy thanking God for his life being spared. Scared? Supposed he was, body shaking in the strange afternoon hallway, fucking fantastic. He was nowhere, nobody knew this place, Perry was nobody, a wanker from school. Scratch had seen him one day, preening in the window of a shop. Scratch thought, he thought of abusing him, thought of insulting him, then thought of a better idea. Remember me, Perry? How you doin’? Pretending, befriending. Useful.
The house was laden with riches. Rich food, rich clothes, the clear, pure taste of vodka to wash down the cereal. Breakfast lunch all together. Okay so he failed, gun failed, not his fault, scared the guy anyway, that was the main thing, didn’t say to actually kill him although he thought that’s what that fucker had meant him to do. Untraceable gun, so who the fuck cared? The buzz, the floating stars, the alcohol was kicking in, maybe he should eat a little more. He needed something salty, fried, heavy, filling. Checked his jeans pocket, found a tenner, that would do.
He found his jacket on the floor of the bedroom. Made sure the bed was tidy. Perry wouldn’t be back but you never knew. Down the carpet stairs, pulling the front door open, feeling absurdly high. A moment to adjust to the low sun in his eyes. To adjust to the image of a man moving quickly up the drive to the door. The blade slipped in, slipped out again, hardly felt anything at all. Saw the stream of red like a shooting star. His body gave way, legs buckled under him and Scratch fell into the best sleep of his life.
~
‘Is this him?’ Harding threw the picture on the bed, forcing Eddie out of his seat. Looked at the red-eyed, acne face, smiling inanely, at a party. No more.
‘He looks about twelve.’
‘Not much older,’ said Harding, rising out his chair, out of his slumber. Put the cup on the table. ‘I don’t know what the fuck is going on, Eddie.’
‘What has he said? You found him pretty quick.’
‘He hasn’t said anything. Never will say anything. We didn’t have to go looking for him. He was waiting on the front lawn of a pretty little house in the suburbs. Like he was sunbathing, only there was no sun and his blood had carved a lovely pattern along the grass.’ He looked at silent Eddie in the vain, vain hope that he might enlighten him. Eddie could see the forlorn desire for help in the detective’s green eyes. He looked at the photograph, tried to match it to the face that had been inches from his own.
‘It could be him. I couldn’t be certain. It happened so fast. My mind was trying to comprehend what was happening. Sorry.’ Harding sighed, walked in laps around the room which didn’t take long.
‘I think you know more than you think you do. I’m not saying you’re hiding something from me. Maybe from yourself, though.’
‘You can connect this dead kid to the one that threatened me?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t know what to say to you. Honestly.’
‘Why would someone threaten you, Eddie? You must have some idea?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Okay, okay,’ said a defeated Harding. ‘Listen, can we get out of here? I feel cramped, I can’t think straight. Need some fresh air. You had no other plans, did you?’
‘No,’ said Eddie. He had stood across from the police station, minutes from going in, had wanted to tell his story, to tell somebody, get help, to find her. Wasn’t that all that mattered? He had been on the verge of going in, hadn’t he? Until Frankie appeared like an angel or a devil at his shoulder. And look
at Frankie now. Look at the kid now, he had held that gun to his neck but something had happened. And look at the kid now.
Plagued, carrion-carrying, disease-ridden Eddie now had the stench of death of him. But not death for him, only for those who came in contact, who touched him. He looked at the detective with pity and despair. If he took the man’s hand now, if he simply brushed him on the shoulder, what malignance would spread through his body?
Down the hill, across the river, the mist and rain had cleared. He saw Wallace proud and tall on the mountain ahead. He walked with pale purpose a fraction behind the slightly stooped Harding whose eyes darted everywhere at once, looked in every face, in every shadow when the sun hid momentarily behind a cloud.
‘This okay?’ asked Harding pointing to a bar, The Stooped Eagle, that looked down on its luck today.
‘Sure,’ said Eddie, surprised, not lunchtime yet, place looked barely open, too dark inside.
‘It’ll be quiet,’ said Harding, reading Eddie’s thoughts.
It wasn’t quiet, it was coalmine dead. A barman didn’t appear for about twenty minutes and when the mild man did, he seemed a little put out at having to start work so early. Harding ordered a whiskey and again proceeded to read Eddie’s thoughts.
‘I took the train down here. My wife will pick me up back in Edinburgh.’ Eddie nodded and ordered a pint of Guinness himself. Too early to start drinking but he thought this just might the occasion to do it.
Here it comes, thought Eddie. The story of my life told to me by a man who spent his life figuring others out.
‘You can see how it looks, Eddie. Don’t you?’ He stopped briefly to taste the brass liquid and take a moment of glorious simple pleasure. ‘Don’t you? Frankie Noon follows you here. You meet him. He’s killed. A kid puts a gun in your face. Tries to kill you or threatens you. He’s then killed. I know, I know what you’re going to say. And the thing is, I believe you, I really do. I don’t think you know what’s going on. But something is. You see that, don’t you?’
Eddie saw, understood, knew. What, who, but not necessarily why.
‘You connect to everything but I don’t see where you fit in.’
‘Story of my life, officer.’
‘Why did you come here, Eddie? To Scotland I mean? For that shitty job, can’t believe that? You had a decent place in Dublin, reasonable job, at least better paid. And you come here for this?’
‘You’ve been to my place in Dublin?’
‘Not me personally but yes, we’ve been there. Why did you leave the club?’
The pint in front of him was sinking fast. One or two more and he might tell the story. Fuck, he wanted to. Done no crime. Done nothing. But you have, Eddie. How could you forget so quickly? The reason all this is happening. That raised fist in the rain, raining down on that poor creature. Putting her in hospital. Killing her. That’s murder. And you lament the blood money taken away and the loss of love.
‘I’d worked many clubs, bars, before. As you probably know. Worked all kinds. With all kinds of crews. Late, late nights, shit money and the worst kind of people in the world. But only job I’m qualified to do. Apart from clean dishes.’ He finished his pint, looked to the vacant bar, hoping to get another. He wasn’t under arrest, he could drink what he liked, say what he liked, not say what he liked.
‘You’re not answering the question.’
‘There was this guy on the door at Frankie’s club. Young, younger anyway, thought he was the fucking bees knees. Never stopped with the jibes. Every night. And what was he? A younger version of me. Only when I was his age, I was actually doing something.’
‘Boxing,’ intoned Harding with a weary whiskey sigh.
‘Boxing, Mr. Harding. A noble profession, believe it or not. Only it doesn’t respect age and none of us know when to stop.’ Where was this going, what the hell was he trying to say? ‘I think I’ll get another. Want to join me?’
‘Sure,’ said Harding. Eddie walked the short few steps to the bar. Vacant barman wandered back from the shadows like a ghost, pained at being disturbed from the sleep of the dead.
‘Tell me, Eddie. What are you afraid of? Who are you afraid of?’ ‘I’m not afraid of anything, Mr. Harding. Not afraid, just tired.’ ‘Tired of all this shit coming down on you, and let me tell you
something. It ain’t going to stop until you get some help. You can’t do this alone. How long can you run? Think they can’t find you as easily as I did?’ ‘I wasn’t hiding.’
‘Why leave?’
‘Why? Someone put a gun to my face. Things like that have a way of fucking with your brain. Frankie being killed, then a gun in my face. I couldn’t breathe. Just needed a break, get out of there. Wouldn’t you have done the same?’
‘I have.’
Eddie believed and liked him in that moment. But Harding was still playing games, clutching at straws, throwing out false promises. The sharp light of the street visible through the open doorway. From this dark hideout Eddie wondered where all the other customers were. Then he realized that it was still early, too early for the casual drinker, too early to try and wash the dirt of work off the shiny suit shoulders. It was always dark in here, he concluded, even the brightest lights would struggle to penetrate the gloom that had rested here so long. Eddie sipped from his drink once more and felt his heart began to race. He struggled to make his body, his mind calm down. He looked at the glass as if it was a carrion carrying beast. Looked at Harding with a similar feeling, for having brought him here, for having dragged him from the comfort, the sanctuary of the hotel room. He could stay in that room forever, speak to no-one, or at least stay there until the money ran out. By then it would all be over, surely.
Lunchtime brought a few more customers, making Eddie feel a little safer although he wasn’t sure why. Harding had lost his way, it seemed, or maybe this was part of his act, how he pulled dark secrets and confessions from unwitting suspects.
Harding started talking about his wife, now his ex-wife, back in Galway, his mind walking through flourishing fields, hands touching vivid rough stone walls, his wife, sensual, wanting always wanting and never understanding what he did for a living. Never, never understood. He grimaced in painful memory, he missed her, still wanted her, she was now being satisfied by another man, a younger man, a stronger man, more of an alcoholic than a workaholic and somehow she preferred that. He suddenly looked up, locked on Eddie and switched with rapier speed back to the case in hand. Eddie shuffled at the back of the court, waiting for the opponent’s serve, no idea where it would come from this time.
‘Stephen Zinny.’ He just said the words, like a mantra, a prayer to the joyless Gods. Eddie froze, froze his face, his emotions, trying not to react. The name had been thrown out there like a discarded sweet wrapper and he’d be damned if he was going to pick it up, no matter how natural it would be to swoop down and grasp it in his fingers. Stephen Zinny. Where’s the harm? They both wanted the same thing, the same person, the same objective and Eddie had no idea how to find him, how to get him. But this man would, this glowering, afternoon-drinking, wife-losing policeman with one eye permanently looking behind him, looking back at the glowing green fields of home, this man would.
‘Who?’ said Eddie, boy scout innocence, curious mind, wanting, waiting for Harding to tell him everything. The policeman took a piece of paper from his coat pocket, a small page torn from a notebook.
‘A Stephen Zinny. Someone mentioned that he might have been involved with Noon. Back in Dublin. He owns several clubs, like our friend, Fair Frankie. You’ve never heard of him?’
‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘Unusual name.’
‘Isn’t it. He’s South African or something. Anyway, could be nothing. Frankie knew a lot of people, this guy is just one them we have to look into. Talk to if we can find him. If you hear anything, remember anything, you never know, you might have seen him, met him briefly, without knowing who he was, if you do think of anything, tell me.’
‘Do you
have a picture of him?’ asked Eddie.
‘Not with me. But I can arrange for you to see one. Perhaps when you’re back in Edinburgh you could call into the station and we could show you there.’
‘Sure.’
‘You are coming back to Edinburgh, Eddie?’
Maybe, when the money runs out, back to some stinking hole job with train yard wages and new dirt under your fingernails every night.
‘Yes, I’m coming back’
‘I could have you arrested, you know that? What I mean is that I have enough to bring you back with me right now. Two murders, Eddie. Do you understand that? Then you leave town. What are we supposed to think? I’ve been very kind to you up to now, very kind. Tell me something. How can you afford to stay in a hotel like that?’
‘I can’t. I picked the first decent place I could find. I didn’t plan any of it. I wanted somewhere clean for a change. Tired of all the—’ Eddie was tired of being tired, of being asked question after question, of justifying his very existence. Exhausted. So he didn’t say any more. Harding shrugged as if he understood. Pushed his empty glass with the air of a man who wanted another but knew he shouldn’t.
‘I shouldn’t,’ he intoned wistfully.
‘Then don’t,’ said Eddie. He wanted this man, this policeman to go away. Just let him be.
‘I could stay here for the night. Go back in the morning. We could talk some more. All the things you’re not telling me, Eddie. Maybe you will.’
‘Maybe I won’t.’ Eddie thought of something. ‘I thought you said your wife was picking you up at the station?’ Harding nodded. Eddie thought of something else. ‘I thought she was your ex-wife and living in Galway?’ A pause, a hesitation, like Eddie had thrown piercing cold water in Harding’s face.
‘There is a second Mrs. Harding. Is that alright?’
‘None of my business.’
‘First honest thing you’ve said today, Mr. Brogan.’
Late afternoon, drizzle from a watery sky, ponderous pedestrians, cafes of slow stirred heavy teas and straining plastic bags on the ground. Harding kept close to Eddie, niggling at him like a poor stray dog. Eddie surveyed the world around him, looking for options, a way out, a dream ticket to the promised land. A homeless hopeless man held aloft a handwritten sign above his frail balding head that bore testimony to the forthcoming end of the world. Eddie couldn’t help but agree in that moment. A cutting breeze kept threatening the corners of the cardboard sign.