Angels in the Moonlight_A prequel to The Dublin Trilogy

by Caimh McDonnell

  “Tommy Carter may well have turned into a Grade-A villainous little viper and I hope you get him and his crew, but his da is a good man and I don’t want to be put in that situation, alright?” Bunny moved closer and jabbed a finger as he spoke. “I know why you want me there, Fintan. When that shower of scumbags decided to burn Carter’s house to the ground, it was me that went in and got his kids out. I did the same as you or any other Garda would’ve done, so let’s not make it into something bigger than it was.”

  “But it was you,” said Fintan, “and we can use that.”

  “Not interested.”

  “I need to unsettle Tommy Carter, so yes, I’m going to use every bit of leverage I can get.”

  “Last I heard,” said Bunny, “Donal Carter was a sick man, kidneys or something. You have to take his son, fine, but Donal is a decent fella. All he wanted to do was get the drugs out of the estate, and he did. If we’d been better at our jobs, he’d not have needed to.”

  Bunny turned back towards the field. O’Rourke grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Christ, you’re an obstinate so-and-so, McGarry. Fine. So be it. I’m going to tell you the one piece of information that nobody knows aside from myself, the commissioner, O’Shea and Cunningham. We don’t want to tip our hand to Carter. I’m trusting you to keep this to yourself.”

  Bunny gave O’Rourke a long look and then nodded.

  O’Rourke lowered his voice further. “The reason we’re squeezing Tommy Carter now is that we have it on very good authority that he’s about to change business. He’s made a deal. We don’t know where or when, but we know he has a massive shipment of cocaine coming in.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “No, it isn’t. I can show you the communications from the DEA in America. Apparently one of his ex-Army Ranger buddies knows some ex-special forces boys in the States who’ve gone into business for themselves. Tommy isn’t his dad, and you said yourself, Daddy isn’t well. In fact, the doctors give him about two months at the most if they can’t get a kidney, and that’s not looking promising. Once he’s gone, Tommy doesn’t care. He’s going to flood the Dublin market with cheap coke and kick off a bloody drug war the likes of which you’ve never seen.”

  “But . . .” said Bunny, clearly struggling to fit this all together. “After all they’ve been through?”

  “That’s exactly it,” said O’Rourke. “You may’ve pulled young Tommy and his sister out of the fire, but Tommy hasn’t forgiven and forgotten those that set it. His dad was anti-drugs, but Tommy is anti a couple of very particular drug dealers – the ones who tried to barbecue him.”

  “But . . .”

  A cry of victory came up from the far end of the field and a girl of maybe eight years old held the lost ball aloft in her hand.

  Bunny turned back towards the field. “Alright, lads, look sharp, keep it going.”

  The opposition restarted the game.

  “LARRY DODDS, get your finger out of your nostril and watch the play.”

  Deccie reappeared beside Bunny, the other ball clutched in his hand. “He’s no appreciation for the nuances of the game, boss.”

  “You’re not wrong, Deccie, you’re not wrong.”

  “Bunny,” said O’Rourke, “are you going to ignore what I just said?”

  The ball made its way to the far side of the field, where the Mulchrone kid intercepted a pass and got raked across the legs for his trouble.

  “REFEREE!”

  A twelve-year-old’s version of a scuffle broke out, with a lot of pushing and shoving, while the referee almost blew himself to a coronary trying to maintain control.

  “Right,” said Bunny, “time to use the bench.”

  Deccie nodded, picked up his helmet and began strapping it on.

  Bunny whacked the top of his helmet and bent down to look him in the eye. “I’m sending you on for Des, I want you to mark their number 12 out of the game.”

  Deccie nodded.

  “He’s bigger than you, taller than you, faster than you – but you’ve got something he hasn’t got.”

  Deccie’s chubby face lit up. “You’re not wrong, boss.” He pulled what appeared to be a homemade knuckleduster out of the pocket of his tracksuit.

  “What the shittin’ hell, Deccie?” Bunny snatched it from him. “This is completely illegal.”

  “It’s not, boss, I looked up the rules of hurling on the Internet at school, doesn’t say nothing ’bout knuckledusters.”

  “What in the . . . this,” said Bunny, waving it in his face, “is illegal in this country, never mind in the sport. What have I told you about trying to use your initiative?”

  “D’ye know what your problem is, boss?” said Deccie, as he picked up his hurley. “You’ve no appreciation for the nuances of the game.”

  Bunny and O’Rourke watched in silence as Deccie ran onto the field.

  “Interesting kid,” said O’Rourke.

  “Ah, he’s alright, deep down. He’s just a bit . . . overenthusiastic, that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” said O’Rourke. “How do you feel about him and all these lads growing up in a city that’s about to be awash with cheap drugs?”

  Bunny gave O’Rourke a sideways glance. “I think you’ve still got my number, Fintan. I think you went out of your way to ask me this here.”

  O’Rourke shrugged. “I’ll use every bit of leverage I can get.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bunny walked down the hallway, his feet squeaking on the polished floors. As he passed each doorway, he couldn’t help but steal a glance at the ward inside. They seemed to be large rooms, four beds each, separated by curtains. They were occupied mostly by older people, who looked back at him with vacant expressions of medication, boredom or both. Occasionally someone sat in a visitor’s chair by a bed, more often than not in silence. Just sitting there, searching for something to say.

  Bunny didn’t like hospitals. He didn’t see how anyone could.

  He took a left, following the signs for the Block C rooms. In this corridor there seemed to be a change in the atmosphere. Private rooms – less hustle and bustle. He caught the odd look through an open doorway, still the same vacant expressions from those in the gowns, the same vain searching on the faces of the visitors. Money didn’t buy you an answer, just a nicer room in which to avoid the question.

  C43.

  Bunny stopped and looked through the small window in the door. The man he was expecting to see was sitting propped up in bed, facing a small TV and flicking through the channels.

  Bunny knocked.

  “C’mon in.”

  Bunny pushed open the door. “Hello, Donal.”

  A quizzical look on the man’s face gave way to a warm grin. “Jaysus! Bunny McGarry, is that you?”

  “It is, I’m afraid.”

  “Christ, as I live and breathe. C’mon in, c’mon in.”

  He patted a chair beside his bed with one hand as the other silenced the TV. Bunny made his way across to it. It’d been maybe seven years since he’d last seen Donal Carter and, given his current location, it was unsurprising that the time hadn’t been good to him. His complexion now had a jaundiced tinge to it, and his lips looked an unnatural shade of off-white. Bunny didn’t know the exact details, other than it was a kidney thing and it was bad. Donal had always been a vibrant man, bursting with barely-contained energy. The body may have weakened but the same dancing vivacity could be seen in his pale green eyes.

  They shook, an IV drip feed stuck into the back of Donal’s hand. If you could judge the seriousness of someone’s state by the amount of beeping technology behind them, Donal’s prognosis was less than rosy.

  “How’re ye keeping? It must be – what? Seven or eight years?”

  “Yeah, about that,” said Bunny, sitting down in the chair. “If it’s not a daft question, how are you?”

  “Ah,” he said, indicating towards the machines, “the kidney thing was always coming, y’know, it’s a genetic thing, but sure, keeping
on. Can’t complain. The staff are taking great care of me and – sorry, where are my manners. Of course you remember Eimear?”

  Bunny turned, surprised to find they were not alone. In the corner behind the door sat a slight-framed woman with long blonde hair almost down to her waist, a thick textbook in her hands. She waved shyly and spoke a greeting in a voice too soft to hear.

  “I do, of course. Sorry, Eimear, I didn’t see you there. My God, you grew up to be a fine girl.”

  Donal beamed pride. “She did indeed. Studying computer sciences now in DCU. First one in the family to go to university.”

  “Ah, isn’t that great. Well done to you,” said Bunny. He looked back at Donal. “To the both of you.”

  Eimear spoke again and Bunny strained to hear. There was a “thanks” in there but it was directed towards the floor. She played with her hair nervously as she spoke.

  Donal patted Bunny’s hand, “Sure, if it hadn’t been for you . . .”

  To his alarm, Bunny noticed Donal’s eyes well up slightly. “Ah, don’t start that, long time ago now.”

  “Still.”

  Bunny shifted nervously. “I was going to get you something but I wasn’t sure if you were allowed chocolate or . . .”

  “Don’t be worrying about that stuff. Tell you the truth, if I never see another grape, it’ll be too soon.”

  Bunny smiled. “Back in the day, we only ever split a bottle of whiskey round your kitchen table, but I figured that was inappropriate.”

  “Maybe, but it’s not the worst idea. Laura Cole from over the road brought in holiday brochures last week, reckoned it’d be nice to dream about a trip abroad. I’ve only left the country once, and that was to go see Man United play and they lost!”

  Bunny shook his head. “Well, if you will insist on following these foreign sports.”

  “Ha, don’t start all that again. You still doing your missionary work, trying to convert us heathen Dubs to the gospel of the GAA?”

  “I am,” said Bunny. “Even got my own junior hurling club.”

  “I heard about that. Fair play to you.”

  There was a pause in the conversation. Both men looked nervously around the room.

  “Fair play,” Donal repeated. He glanced over at Eimear sitting in the corner. “Eimear, love, would you mind going and getting me one of those bottles of Lucozade from downstairs, please?” He looked across at Bunny. “Would you like anything?”

  “I’m grand, thanks, grand.”

  Eimear stood, and as she did so, Bunny noticed that under her baggy cardigan she looked unhealthily thin. She hugged it closed around her, smiled shyly and, with a mumble, she was gone.

  “She’s a great girl,” said Bunny.

  “Yeah,” replied Donal, pride in his voice. “I did something right there.”

  “You did. Not easy raising two kids on your own.”

  Back in the day, when they’d been good friends, Donal had once opened up to Bunny about losing Eimear’s mother. She’d died in childbirth. They’d warned her of the risk but she’d refused to hear of any other options. In a graveyard out in Glasnevin, his wife and the baby she died trying to deliver lay side by side. Most men wouldn’t have come back from that. Donal Carter wasn’t most men, and not one cliché of the single-parent father applied to him.

  “Yeah, great girl,” repeated Donal, and then another lengthy pause hung over the room as both men looked at each other. “So, I take it this isn’t a social call?”

  Bunny lowered his head. “I’m afraid not. I . . . I wanted to talk to you, up front, about . . .”

  “Tommy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Donal nodded.

  “You know what he . . .”

  Donal shifted around in the bed nervously. “I’m not going to say—”

  “Oh no,” said Bunny, “I’m not asking you to. I’m not officially here or anything. But . . .” Bunny looked back into Donal’s eyes. “You know who he is?”

  “I know he takes good care of his whole community – and me.” Donal waved his hand around. “A bus driver’s pension doesn’t get you a private room, believe you me. Mrs Grainger from over the road is in one down the hall there too – no widow is going to afford that on her own.”

  “Alright, but Donal . . . You know how he’s paying for it?”

  “He runs a launderette and he has shares in a few businesses.” It was clear Donal didn’t believe it, even as he said it, for all the defiance in his voice. The awkward silence descended again.

  Bunny looked around and saw a Sunday paper sitting at the bottom of the bed. He picked it up and pointed at the picture on the front page. “See this, someone robbed an armoured car on the Quays.”

  “I did,” said Donal. “A bank lost some money, no harm in that.”

  “Yeah, regular Robin Hood stuff. Only . . . men with guns running about, eventually people get hurt. Innocent people.”

  Donal bristled. “Really? I’d not read of any casualties.”

  “One of the Gardaí in the support vehicle had a minor heart problem. Not helped by a grenade being stuck on his windscreen. I believe he’s on a ward somewhere around here.”

  “Stressful job.”

  “And these raiders threatened the kid of one of the van’s guards. Just a working Joe from Ranelagh, looking out a window at a gun and a picture of his little girl.”

  Donal said nothing, just looked away.

  “And as great as this Robin Hood image is, that’s all it is. It’s men with guns taking what they want. And that’s saying that stealing is all they’re doing.”

  Bunny looked at Donal. He watched for some flicker of recognition, but there was none there. Bunny would bet his life that Tommy’s expansion into drugs would come as a horrible surprise to his father. He felt guiltily relieved that the need to keep the information secret meant he didn’t have to be the one to tell him. It’d no doubt break his heart.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” said Donal. “My son doesn’t discuss his business with me.” Alarm spread across his face before he pointed back at the paper. “Not that I’m saying this is his business.”

  Bunny put the newspaper down. “Donal, we go back. Long way.”

  “That’s true and . . . you know I’m grateful because—”

  “Let’s forget about—”

  “No,” interrupted Donal. “You broke down a door and ran through fire when those bastards tried to burn my children in their beds. I’ll never forget that. It’s thanks to you I have a family. You’re a hero.”

  Bunny sighed. “I’m really not, Donal. It’s my job. And if I have to take somebody down and throw them in prison for a long time, that’ll just be my job too.” He stood up. “I just, I just wanted to say that because . . . we go back a long way.”

  They exchanged a sad smile.

  “I’ll leave you be. Best of luck with all the . . .”

  Bunny looked at the machines again and couldn’t find the words. He gave a nod and headed towards the door.

  “Bunny?”

  He looked back at the frail figure in the bed.

  “He’s not the man you think he is.”

  Bunny opened the door. “I could say the same.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Herbert W Armstrong,” said Gringo.

  Bunny continued to look out the window of the car. They’d been parked up opposite 17 Crossan Road, in the centre of the Clanavale Estate, since 7:30 am. On either side of the street were near-identical rows of terraced council housing, which seemed to have been consciously designed with the least amount of imagination imaginable. Most were an eggshell white, save for the occasional stamp of individuality. Number 24 was painted pink. Bunny could only imagine the controversy that must have caused. Numbers 3 and 10 had kitchen appliances in their respective gardens; it was impossible to tell who had stolen the idea for this landscaping innovation from whom.

  Bunny looked at number 17 again and tried to picture it as it had been on that fatefu
l night. It had been well ablaze when he had kicked the door in, run through the flames and rescued Tommy Carter and his sister, Eimear. All he had done was his job. What was he supposed to feel now? Pride?

  The reality was that he felt nothing. He had always been this way. His good deeds felt like they belonged to someone else. Only his mistakes were truly his.

  Donal Carter being Donal Carter, he had rebuilt the house exactly as it was.

  “Are you listening to me?” said Gringo.

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Herbert W Armstrong,” he repeated.

  Bunny sighed. “Is he the bloke who lives in number 32 with the rose bushes?”

  “No. He’s an American fella, predicted the world was going to end in 1936.”

  “Did he?” said Bunny, watching in his wing mirror as the young woman from number 4 down the road pushed a pram out of her front door. The older sibling of the pram’s occupant was running around excitedly, wrapped up in one of those padded anoraks with the hood up that made determining the gender of the child impossible.

  “. . . and then predicted it would end again in 1943, 1972 and 1975. Can you believe that?”

  The mother was now walking up the pavement towards them, her mobile phone out and glued to her ear. The kid was running ahead of her, like one of the less subtle inmates from The Great Escape.

  “God loves a trier,” said Bunny.

  “Yeah, but after you’ve got it wrong three times – like, seriously wrong – who goes, ‘OK, folks, I know what I said before, but this time I really have nailed it.’ Who has that level of self-confidence?”

  Bunny didn’t respond. He was watching the kid, he was watching the mother not watching the kid and he was watching the coal lorry that had just swung around the corner.

  “I mean, it’s almost impressive isn’t it? When you think about it.”