Begging to Die

by Graham Masterton

  Brianna took no notice. She was watching the young man dispassionately as his gasps became fewer, and weaker, and when the ambulance started moving again she ducked her head down now and again so that she could look out of the window and see how close they were to arriving at Cork University Hospital.

  The young man stopped gasping just before they turned into the hospital entrance. Brianna checked his pulse again and his heart had stopped beating.

  ‘Thank you, Jesus,’ she whispered. ‘Perfect timing, as usual.’

  She waited until Darragh had backed the ambulance up to the entrance to the emergency department and hurried around to open up the rear door. Then, just as calmly as before, she turned the young man’s oxygen supply back on again.

  ‘What’s the story?’ asked Darragh, as he climbed up the steps.

  ‘He’s gone,’ she said, lifting up both of her hands as if to say, I did everything I could, but—

  ‘Oh well,’ said Darragh, looking down at the young man’s body. ‘Another one bites the dust. That’ll learn him that your red light means stop.’

  4

  Conor was already at home by the time Katie turned in to the gateway of her bungalow on Carrig View, twenty kilometres to the east of Cork city and overlooking the estuary of the River Lee. He must have heard her pulling up outside, because he opened the front door with Barney, her red setter, and Foltchain, her red-and-white setter, both of them excitedly flapping their tails. As she climbed the steps up to the porch, though, she saw that he was also cradling a small black-faced pug dog in his arms.

  ‘I thought you were going to be late,’ she said, as she tugged affectionately at Barney and Foltchain’s ears.

  ‘I know. But the Weimaraner turned out to be a red herring, if you know what I mean. I was given a tip-off about this little feen instead.’

  ‘Mother of God, Con. Are we after setting up a home for rescue dogs? Where did he come from?’

  ‘Ballincollig,’ said Conor. ‘The woman who had him helps out in the kitchen in The Darby Arms. Walter, his name is. She told me that some fellow came into the pub about two weeks ago looking to sell him, because he was off to start a new job in England.’

  ‘A likely story,’ said Katie, hanging up her pointy-hooded raincoat. ‘How much was this fellow asking for him?’

  ‘Only a hundred and fifty euros. That’s less than a quarter of what you’d normally expect to pay for a pug puppy. If they’re show quality, they’re over a thousand. But because Walter was so cheap, your woman didn’t ask for any paperwork, or if he’d been wormed or inoculated, or if he’d been chipped.’

  ‘But he turned out to be one of the dogs you’ve been looking for?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Conor. He followed Katie into the living room, where a fresh log fire was snapping and crackling. She sat down on the couch to ease off her ankle boots and both Barney and Foltchain came nuzzling up to her, one on each side, eager to have their ears stroked.

  ‘Will you two please stall the ball for a second to take my boots off!’ she protested, and both dogs cocked their heads to one side as if to say, oh, come on, who’s more important, your boots or us?

  ‘Where’s Walter’s owner?’ asked Katie. ‘Aren’t you going to take him home?’

  ‘His owner’s a young woman who works for the county council’s library service, Caoimhe O’Neill. She still lives with her parents in Douglas.’

  ‘So, what, hasn’t she paid you?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’m not going to ask her to. It’s Walter’s condition that worries me. She says she bought him from the Foggy Fields puppy farm up at Ballynahina, and they assured her that he was one hundred per cent healthy, but you only have to look at him to see that he’s in fierce poor shape, the same as a lot of brachycephalic dogs like him.’

  Katie looked up at the pug puppy in Conor’s arms. He was silver-grey with a black mask, and from the way he was staring back down at her she thought he was adorable.

  ‘He’s a darling,’ she said, blowing him two or three kisses. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘You name it. Everybody thinks pugs look so cute with their squashed-up faces, but if they’ve not been carefully bred and well taken care of, they can suffer a whole rake of problems. Walter has trouble breathing, because his nostrils are so narrow, and upper airway issues, and he has bulging pockets of tissue in the back of the throat that could choke him.’

  ‘Now you come to mention it, his eyes look pure bulgy, too,’ said Katie, peering at Walter more closely.

  ‘That’s right. They’re so protuberant that his eyelids don’t quite cover his lids, and that’s why he has all that discharge. He could even be prone to proptosis.’

  ‘If I knew what that was, I’d probably feel even more sorry for him than I do already.’

  ‘Well, you would, because it means that his eyes are liable to pop right out of his head, even when he’s just playing or rolling around. I’ve seen it happen a few times. You can push them back in again, but as he grows older he’ll almost certainly end up blind.’

  ‘So that’s why you haven’t returned him to his mistress.’

  ‘I’ll take him down first to Domnall O’Sullivan at the Gilabbey Veterinary Hospital – you know, the same fellow who took care of Barney. He needs a thorough check-up and he’ll maybe need surgery to help his breathing and get rid of those everted laryngeal saccules. That’s if Caoimhe’s prepared to pay for it.

  ‘I really want to find out a whole lot more about this Foggy Fields, though. There’s far too many of these illegal breeders these days, and the puppies they’re churning out are almost always sick and miserable and over half of them die after only a few weeks. Do you know how many puppies this country produced last year?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘Nearly a hundred thousand! That’s how many! Even though we have only seventy-eight registered breeders! In England they have nearly nine hundred registered breeders, and do you know how many puppies they produced?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Seventy thousand, that’s all. That means our breeders are turning out sixteen times as many. It’s a scandal.’

  Katie tugged on her fluffy pink slippers and went through to the kitchen. Conor and Barney and Foltchain all followed her.

  ‘Con,’ she said, as she took out the cod and the smoked haddock that she’d put in the fridge that morning to defrost. ‘I know how dedicated you are to protecting animals, but don’t you think you’re doing enough to help them as a pet detective?’

  ‘Katie – just listen to this little fellow! He’s struggling with every single breath! If he was a human, we’d be rushing him off to the emergency room!’

  ‘We would, yes, but you’re taking him to see Domnall tomorrow, aren’t you? And if you start going after those illegal dog-breeders you could find yourself in desperate trouble. You’re already on a suspended sentence for setting fire to Guzz Eye McManus’s mobile home. You’d only have to get yourself involved in one more incident like that and you could find yourself banged up in Rathmore Road, sharing a cell with a bunch of druggies.’

  ‘McManus was a sadistic monster. When you think of all the dogs that got torn to pieces in his dog fights.’

  ‘That was still no justification for you burning down his home. And it was only because the judge was such a dog lover that you got let off so light. The puppy-breeders are something else, though. We tried to prosecute one only last summer. He had thirty-one breeding bitches but he said that he was mad about dogs and he hadn’t realized that he wasn’t allowed more than six. He pleaded to apply for a licence and they gave him one.’

  ‘They didn’t fine him?’

  ‘No, Con. There’s no will to,’ Katie told him. ‘Dog wardens can give you a spot fine of a hundred and fifty euros if you don’t pick up your dog mess, can’t they, but the courts won’t penalize you for breeding seven hundred illegal puppies and selling them off when they’re only two weeks old. You s
aw what happened when Pat Murphy tried to raise the question about puppy-breeding in the Dáil. Nobody showed up, except for the minister. Nobody.’

  Conor watched her in silence as she peeled potatoes and put them on to boil, and then mashed up the fish.

  ‘I know you’re fuming,’ she said. ‘When you find out more about Foggy Fields I can talk to the ISPCA for you and see if it needs to be investigated. But please, I’m begging you, Con, stay out of it yourself. I don’t want us to have to postpone our wedding because you’re locked up in jail. And I don’t want you getting on the wrong side of the puppy-breeders. They’re a hard lot, I can tell you. But then you know that already.’

  ‘They don’t scare me, Katie. What they’re doing is wrong and incredibly cruel. And it doesn’t do our country’s reputation much good, either. Irish-bred puppies are notorious in America for being sickly and difficult to train.’

  Katie put down her fork and went over to him and touched his beard. Walter looked up at her and she could hear the laboured whining in his stenotic nostrils.

  ‘Con, sweetheart, I know you want to save every dog in the world. Saint Conor of the Canines. I love dogs as much as you do, but I don’t want you to risk your freedom or your life.’

  *

  They sat down at the kitchen table to eat their fishcakes while the dogs wandered off to lie down by the fire. Barney and Foltchain seemed to accept Walter as if he were a visiting cousin, and let him lie between them.

  Katie told Conor how she had found Ana-Maria in the Huguenot cemetery, and how she had been attacked and Ana-Maria had run away. ‘The Lord only knows where she is now. I just pray that she has some shelter because it’s lashing out there tonight, and something to eat.’

  ‘The whole world’s going to hell in a sulky,’ said Conor. ‘A kennel-owner friend of mine texted me from Sligo this morning and said that his farm had been ransacked. There’s gangs coming down from Dublin into the countryside and robbing every house they come to. Where are the guards these days, that’s what he asked me.’

  Katie ground black pepper over her fishcake and shook her head. ‘I know we’re letting people down. We’ve suffered so many budget cuts in the past few years, though, and we simply don’t have the manpower any more. Oh – I shouldn’t be saying “manpower” these days, should I? Let’s say we’re seriously under effective staffing levels.’

  When they had finished eating, they went into the living room and sprawled on the couch together. First Dates Ireland was showing on the TV but they had turned the sound off.

  ‘Your beard needs a trim,’ said Katie, tugging at it. ‘You’re starting to look like one of them what’s-their-names. One of them fellers from ZZ Top.’

  ‘I’ll go up to Crew Cuts tomorrow, I promise you, as soon as I come back from the vet’s.’

  ‘I think I love you, straggly or not.’

  ‘You only think?’

  ‘I love you but you scare me. I don’t think you realize how dangerous they are, some of the scumbags you keep challenging. I don’t want you ending up in the river. Not for all the sickly puppies in Ireland.’

  Conor kissed her, and then kissed her again. ‘I swear to God that I’ll watch my back, Katie.’

  She was about to warn him about one illegal dog-breeder in particular, up in Labbacally, who she knew to have five hundred bitches on his farm, when her iPhone played the chorus from ‘Mo Ghille Mear’ – My Gallant Hero. She had chosen that ringtone especially for Conor.

  ‘Ma’am? Sorry to disturb you so late.’ It was Detective Sergeant Ni Nuallán.

  ‘Not a worry, Kyna. What’s the story?’

  ‘That little girl you found today. She’s turned up.’

  ‘Ana-Maria? That’s a pure relief. Where was she?’

  ‘She walked into Burger King on Pana about an hour ago and asked for a burger. “Burger” was about the only English word she knew. She had only thirty cents on her, and of course she was unaccompanied, but the manager used his brains and let her have the burger and a milkshake, and while she was eating it he gave us a ring.’

  ‘Thank goodness there are some people with decency in this world. Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s right here, in the station, fast asleep in bed. I’ve rung Margaret O’Reilly at Tusla and she’ll be coming over first thing. She’ll fetch one of the social workers who specializes in separated foreign children. Meanwhile, Garda McGuinness is going to be keeping an eye on her during the night, in case she wakes up distressed.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Beat out, I’d say. But she wolfed her burger, apparently, and drank all her milkshake, and she’ll be given a good breakfast tomorrow.’

  ‘We still don’t know what nationality she is?’

  ‘She hasn’t said a word since we brought her here. But the social worker will know.’

  ‘Thanks, Kyna. That’s taken a load off my mind. I’ll come in early tomorrow to see her.’

  She put down the phone. ‘That was Kyna,’ she told Conor. ‘Ana-Maria has turned up.’

  ‘I gathered that. Good news.’

  Unexpectedly, Katie’s eyes filled with tears. Conor reached out for her but she flapped her hand and said, ‘I’m all right, Con. I’m grand. I think I’m feeling a bit like a little girl lost myself, since my da passed away. I’ll be all right.’

  Conor said nothing but put his arms around her and held her close. After a while she sniffed, and then she laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked her.

  ‘Your beard. It tickles.’

  5

  As they drove slowly past the entrance to the Savoy Centre on St Patrick’s Street, Garda Megan Cavey said, ‘Gearoid’s not up yet. What’s the time? Looks like he’s having himself a lie-in, the lazy fellow.’

  Garda Jimmy Brogan drew the squad car into the kerb, beside the bus stop. The beggar they knew only as Gearoid was lying in the doorway of the empty shop underneath O’Brien’s Photographers, covered from head to foot in a thick blue blanket. It was eight oh-five and by now he had usually peeled off his blanket and gone to the toilets in Dunnes Stores and bought himself a cup of coffee and a cheese roll. He should be sitting up in his khaki anorak with his cardboard sign saying, Homeless But Not By Choice Please Help.

  Garda Cavey climbed out of the squad car and crossed the pavement to the shop doorway. She was a sturdy girl with a big bottom, thick ankles and short gingery hair and so many freckles that her face looked as if it had been liberally sprinkled with paprika. She crouched down beside Gearoid’s blanket and said, ‘Gearoid? You’re not still dreaming are you there, Gearoid? Time to wake up and start shaking your paper cup, sham!’

  There was no response. Gearoid’s head was completely covered but his feet were sticking out from the end of the blanket in their worn brown boots with thick grey socks. Garda Cavey was inclined at first to let him sleep on, but then she noticed a dented green tin of Peterson’s Irish Oak tobacco beside the wall. This was the tin in which he kept the cigarette ends that he salvaged from the gutter, and she couldn’t imagine that he would leave it out in full view while he was asleep, in case some other beggar hobbled it, or it was picked up by a council street cleaner.

  She pulled her black latex gloves out of her jacket pocket and snapped them on. Then she reached out and shook Gearoid’s shoulder.

  ‘Gearoid? Come on, Gearoid, it’s morning! How about stirring yourself?’

  There was still no response, so she grasped the top of his filthy blanket and tugged it down. He would normally sleep with the hood of his anorak raised, especially on such a cold January night, but this morning his hood was folded back, exposing his thick tangled mess of auburn curls, mingled with grey.

  She shook him again, harder this time, but all he did was jiggle lifelessly and she realized that he was either drunk or drugged or more likely dead.

  She turned around and called out, ‘Jim! Jimmy! We’re after needing a white van here, boy! And the technical experts! I think Gearoid’s lef
t us!’

  While Garda Brogan called for an ambulance and the Technical Bureau, Garda Cavey dragged the blanket completely off Gearoid and heaved him over on to his back. When she did that, an empty vodka bottle rolled away across the pavement. There was no question now that he was dead. His eyes were wide open but they had already turned dark and flat. His dry, cracked lips were parted, and the tip of his yellow-furred tongue was sticking out as if he were showing the world for the very last time that he didn’t care what it did to him. He stank of faeces so his bowels had obviously opened when he died.

  Although he was so filthy, Garda Cavey pressed her fingers underneath his scraggly beard to check if there was any sign of a pulse. She had once believed that a middle-aged woman who had collapsed in Paul Street Tesco was dead, but on the way to hospital the woman had suddenly sat up and asked where in the name of Jesus she was being taken to.

  Garda Brogan came over and looked down at Gearoid. He was in his late thirties, Garda Brogan, with a sooty six o’clock shadow and black eyebrows that met in the middle.

  ‘Been dead for at least three hours, I’d say. Probably more. Oh, well, poor Gearoid. He always said that he’d be happier in Heaven. Used to be a folk singer, that’s what he told me. Even made a record. He’s probably crooning away with the choir invisible already.’

  ‘I can’t see any obvious signs of trauma,’ said Garda Cavey. ‘No blood on his clothes. No bruises.’

  Garda Brogan nodded towards the empty vodka bottle. ‘Alcoholic poisoning, plus hypothermia, I’ll lay money on it.’

  Garda Cavey stood up. ‘What a way to end your life, do you know what I mean, like? Dead in a doorway.’

  ‘Could have been worse, I suppose,’ said Garda Brogan. ‘He reckoned that this is one of the most profitable doorways in Cork, when it comes to begging. What – you’re right next to the Savoy Centre, and slap-bang opposite Debenhams and Brown Thomas. Even on a bad week he told me he could clear seven or eight hundred euros, easy, and he’d make a heap more than that during the Patrick’s Day Parade or the LGBT Pride Parade, or Easter or Christmas. This doorway, it’s like a fecking franchise.’