by John Brady
Minogue had that stupid feeling again. Anytime he was on the phone for more than a minute or so, he felt stupid. He became bored talking into it, no matter how important it was supposed to be or how well known to him the person on the other end. Minogue's attention wandered all the more because he knew he was getting a long and polite no with many hints and reasons.
He liked the man on the other end, Denny Byrne from the Drug Squad. For a Wicklowman he was a good old stick.
"The chances are very much against it, Matt. The crates and things do be open, you see, to air the goods. There does be a lot of loose stuff in them, compared to other things, you see. It used to be popular enough a number of years ago, I don't mind telling you, but we copped op. I shouldn't say it was us who copped on. It was others, like fellas unloading and finding burst bags of things. I remember even a fellow out in Fairview who ran a shop phoning up and telling me he had 'drugs' in a box of bananas. 'Go way outa that,' I says to him, thinking like bananas is the word for him. God, do you know he was right. So I says to him, 'How did you cop onto the fact that these were bags of heroin, then?' You know what he says? 'Why wouldn't I know they were drugs? Sure don't I see it on shows on the telly?'"
Minogue smiled.
"So, a slim chance."
"Yep. That's about it. I'm not saying we're sniffing around the port of Dublin every day. But I don't mind people thinking we are. We go through people, people we know about or hear about. We can't afford to go the random route alone, do you see."
That was that, Minogue thought. Walsh as an unwitting accomplice in a deal, then he stumbled on something? Wild guessology. Still, Minogue had had the direction from two people independently, and they were not the sort to be romancing. Loftus for all his prissy speechifying about law and order was not a fool, nor was Allen. Allen. What was it about Allen? Was it that he was so organised, so controlled?
Minogue decided that it was time to dose himself with a large white coffee in Bewley's. He stepped out onto the greasy cobblestones and felt the drops of rain pat against his coat. The air freshened him. He wondered if he was being played elaborately by somebody or somebodies. Even Mick Roche, the Students' Union president, had turned in a fine performance, one might think. As Minogue shouldered into Bewley's on Grafton Street he wondered: and Agnes?
After his second cup of coffee, Minogue had decided to return to Agnes McGuire. She wasn't popping up again and again in his mind for no good reason. There was something she hadn't said, he was sure of that. Maybe it'd turn out that what she'd say would not help him. Maybe she'd cry out her loss and break down, shed the stoicism and sadness and show her anger. It must be there, he thought, she's only human.
Minogue's timing worked. Agnes had returned from the funeral some minutes before he climbed the stairs and knocked. She didn't seem surprised to see him. She let him in.
"Agnes, I've held off asking you certain questions. God knows, I've never had much sense of timing so I'd like to try them now. It'll speed things up a lot. Or it will close off some distracting angles anyway."
"I think you want to ask me if there was a Someone Else. Isn't that the way it goes?"
"That's about the size of it, Agnes. Can you help me? You see, this thing has hallmarks of what might be called a crime of passion. It's an avenue I have to explore sometime."
Minogue saw reluctance in her. She examined her fingers before she spoke.
"It's a funny thing, I suppose," she began, "but when you least expect it you have something you never expected to have. Would it surprise you to know that I didn't have a boyfriend until I started college here? You'd think the opposite, wouldn't you, that the local thing would win out and that you'd go out with someone from your own background…? Well, my father was assassinated when I was sixteen. You can imagine what that made of our lives."
Minogue watched her eyelashes as signs and when they stopped flickering, she continued.
"Well, I came here and, you know, I liked it. I didn't think I would. I felt that people in the South were not very sincere, if you know what I mean. This thing about violence. They didn't have to go through the results of their thinking. They just don't understand. It's not like 1916. I suppose you could say I was cynical." Son-e-col, Minogue heard.
"At first when Jarlath started following me around, I was annoyed. He was such a puppy. Embarrassing."
She smiled. Minogue was attentive at the same time as he was lost in thought. His mind raced on from her words, from her accent.
"Odd how things work out. Feeling sorry for him, I mean. The politicos used to teale him a lot here. You know how it is, the students who have a lot of ideas about society, have read a lot. Can you imagine how surprised I was when I heard myself defending and explaining Jarlath to Mick Roche? You know him?"
"The president of the Students' Union."
"Yes. Well, I was sort of going out with Mick. Or at least that's what he thought. I think he felt sorry for me, did Mick. Maybe even more than Jarlath. He knew my background. I felt I had to thank him somehow for feeling sorry for me. God. You know, I found out that people with any brains here in the South seem to be just hypnotized by the North. All Mick's talk is organised around it. There's a lot of fellas here in the South feel like that too, but all the most of them want is a bit of excitement or something like that. Mick is different. I think he felt guilty or something. Ashamed… How did I get to talking about this? Sounds like a soap opera."
Minogue smiled in return this time.
"… Anyway. I felt I was some kind of specimen. A ghost to haunt them here. But Jarlath didn't try to mine me for info like the others. Not head-over-heels or anything like that. He was very naive. Very. And, you know, I didn't mind that. He wasn't putting on like he knew or understood everything. Oh sure, he probably was opinionated, but he could feel things. That was the difference; he had a stomach. I felt bad for him when they laughed at him. His ideas used to get him into trouble."
"Dr Allen mentioned that Jarlath had a stake in something which wasn't in favour, academically at least," Minogue said.
Agnes' eyebrows arched.
"Something about a psychological model of Irish character that we could use to solve some of our, em, problems," Minogue offered.
Agnes turned to look at the window. Her hands were clasped together. Her head dipped as if to concentrate on her twining hands. Her hair fell to conceal her cheeks. Minogue waited. He saw a tear drop onto her arm. For no reason his sluggish mind could settle on in that room, he felt appalled. He shouldn't be doing this. This could be Iseult by chance of birth or geography. Without raising her head, Agnes picked a paper hanky from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. Then she tossed her hair back. Minogue saw the film still on her eyes.
"It's all right," she said. "Just some things. Some people would say he was just thick or that he was a part of a class who helped cause the stuff up North so he'd never admit to the'reality' of the situation. He hadn't been to the North once in his life. So there he was trying to build a big theory up for… for I don't know what. His family took care of him all his life. I mean what did he know about poverty or civil rights? Really?"
Agnes looked inquiringly at Minogue and then continued:
"The thing was-and I don't care what anyone else says-he was trying. I suppose it'd look sort of clumsy to an older person. When I think of it. Cooking Italian food and trying out wines. The Student Prince." Agnes' teeth showed in her smile this time. Then she frowned and looked straight at Minogue.
"Maybe I was the only one who noticed he was changing. I'll bet his parents didn't notice. I met them today for the first time. And the last time probably. I shouldn't say it maybe… but I felt I had seen them before. They didn't seem like strangers."
Minogue was thinking about Mick Roche. Could hardly call him jilted though. He had been circumspect, not the opinionated termagant Minogue had expected in a student leader. Perhaps give him credit for being able to conceal his feelings. Still, Roche had recognised the changes in Jar
lath.
"Agnes, did Jarlath experiment with drugs at all?"
Minogue looked closely at her to try and gauge the risk. He had said it out of context, watching. Would she switch to anger? Minogue waited, seeing the frown on her face, not knowing if he had asked at the right time.
"Are you joking?"
Minogue didn't reply.
"Like I said this morning: No."
After a pause of returning his gaze, Agnes spoke slowly.
"Maybe I had better save you some embarrassment, Sergeant. You talk about drugs. Well Jarlath didn't so much as experiment with sex. He was all for cuddles and going to the pictures and walking me home. As for trying to stay the night… and it isn't even that I wanted things that way at all. But you know fellas, trying to prove things to themselves. Jarlath got pissed out of his brain after three pints. I mean, nothing doing. Can you believe that?"
"Yes," Minogue said simply. He turned away from the intensity of her gaze. She had decided in his favour by the slightest of margins. She still retained the challenging candour in her voice as if daring him to push his luck into rudeness. "Yes." Minogue needed to believe as much about Iseult and Daithi, that they weren't part of the touted libertine rubbish which the magazines fed to the middle-aged on their stale weekends.
Minogue heard a little ping in the back of his head. It came from remembering Allen's reluctance in telling him about Jar-lath's interests. Had Jarlath kept it to himself, this business about the effects of drugs? Wouldn't Agnes know? It just wasn't likely that he'd keep it to himself. Minogue found that Agnes was still looking directly at him, awaiting the signs of another challenge. No, he decided, he couldn't ask her now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The south side of Dublin being snotty, plenty of the cars which passed Gardai Kehoe and Cummins cost more than twice their annual salaries, before tax. The two were sitting in a Garda squad car near the Bray Road, the main thoroughfare $outh from Dublin. There was an agreement between them that their priorities would be given to Jags, BMWs, Mercedes and anything made in Italy that wasn't a Fiat. Speed traps were rare on Irish roads, but such a potential source of revenue as the billiard table expanse of the new Bray Road couldn't be ignored,
Kehoe and Cummins had been sitting in the car before morning rush hour some weeks previously, and they had observed a reddish projectile rocketing under the bridge in Belfield. Kehoe burned his fingers as he tried to get the cigarette out of his mouth, looking for the ignition. The UFO had obliged them by mounting a curb near Stillorgan, ripping off the front of the car and grinding to a stop after it had rubbed itself like a drugged, frantic cat along a wall for over two hundred feet. All this at ten to seven in the morning. Later, the authorities were to report that the showband star inside, one Malachi O'Brien of O'Brien's Country Treasures, a band enjoying a large following in all parts of the republic except Dublin, was too drunk to get out of the car. O'Brien expressed his gratitude at being rescued by the officers and added that it was only because the new Bray Road was so well constructed that his life had been extended. The car had been travelling at speeds close to a hundred miles an hour.
"It's the bloody telly. Smokey and the Outlaw, or whatever you call it. Did you hear him? 'Arra boys, the blessin's of God and his Holy Mother on you. Amn't I only delighted to see ye. Sure the bloody car took off by itself and I couldn't stop it,'" Kehoe mimicked to his colleague.
"Blind drunk, I suppose, was he?"
"Man dear, he was nearly speechless with the drink. He didn't know what century he was in. I wouldn't mind but he's a favourite of the wife's. She was surprised, I can tell you."
"Pop stars? A pack of ujits. That's a nice how do you do."
Both Gardai guessed that the motorists had been flashing lights up ahead. In ten minutes, they hadn't heard the alert from the speed gun.
"We'll head off so," Kehoe muttered.
Kehoe clipped on his belt and started off on the slip road which joined the dual carriageway a hundred yards ahead. Cummins radioed in and sat back. Kehoe noticed a large car which had been coming up fast behind them. It had braked when the driver had realised he was passing a police car, itself doing the legal limit. Kehoe saw the bonnet of the car, a Mercedes, dip in his mirror. That'll learn you, he thought. For divilment, he slowed the police car. The car, a yellow Mercedes, was obliged to pass. Kehoe nudged his partner. Both looked over to the right at the slowly passing car. The car was no more than a year old.
The Gardai knew that the occupants would pretend not to notice them. There were three men in the car. It was a kind of play: the driver knew he had been speeding, the Gardai knew it, they all knew that each knew it, but the radar wasn't on. The driver and passenger stared ahead. As the rear passenger drifted by the police car, he darted a glance at the two policemen. Both Cummins and Kehoe noticed this. Kehoe, closest to the passing car, was the first to say it.
"Well, Lar. Will we give it a look?"
Cummins didn't answer immediately. Cummins was a Dublin-man, an exception on the Garda police force. He came from Crumlin, a working class district. He had had to take a lot of stick for joining the police. Crumlin didn't harbour many Mercedes. Cummins didn't mind that many of the policemen he worked with were bogmen, even though he knew they acted the heavy sometimes because they wanted to get a dig at Dublin hooligans.
Cummins had a new house in Templeogue and his wife, Breda, had a job in the bank. He had bought a new car. Cummins and the wife had been to Greece on their honeymoon. He didn't think he had any reason to resent rich people. Cummins could not ignore the internal radar, that intuition which he and Kehoe, who was a Kilkenny bogman, along with other police had. Three men in a car starts you thinking.
"Keep an eye on him anyway, I suppose."
Cummins reached for the microphone and called in the registration, a Dublin one. A 280 SEL. He wondered if that was a six-cylinder model. Waiting for the reply, the Gardai could hear the chatter of the other units. Kehoe had sat in, two cars behind the Merc. They'd have to decide soon because the turnoff to Booterstown was coming up soon.
"Blackrock, Unit Fourteen… a yellow Mercedes, number is… Meath. Hold on a second until I get the number…reported stolen yesterday in Dunboyne. Model 280 SEL, year…"
"Blackrock, Unit Fourteen. Meath, is it?"
"Yes, Fourteen. Hold on a sec now…"
Cummins looked over at Kehoe. Kehoe nodded. Cummins wrote down the number anyway. Cummins radioed in their location and that they wanted to look over the car.
Kehoe pulled out and drew alongside the Mercedes. Faces turned to the two Gardai. Cummins had put on his hat and he had opened the window. He signalled the driver to pull over. One of the passengers leaned forward and spoke to the driver. The driver looked over to the policemen and nodded briefly. The Merc slowed. Kehoe pulled in ahead of the car.
He unbuckled his seat-belt as he watched Cummins walk back toward the Mercedes. There were about two car lengths between them. In the mirror, Kehoe noticed that the three men were sitting quite still, watching Cummins approach. Just before it happened, Kehoe had a sudden understanding of something, like when he had fallen on the ground during a game of football as a child.
Cummins heard the engine race and he chose the right direction to run. He leaped over the kerb as the Mercedes shot forward into the traffic lane. It surged into second gear and Cummins heard the deep burr of the six cylinders pick up the load again, rocketing the car into the light traffic. By the time Cummins had run to the car, Kehoe had it moving.
The Vauxhall squealed out from the kerb. Kehoe switched on the siren and threw his hat into the back seat. Cummins worked the radio. He felt calm even when Kehoe threw the car around in traffic. He glimpsed the tail of the Mercedes already racing by Booterstown Avenue. The traffic light there was turning orange.
"Ah shag it," Kehoe said. He skidded to a stop and leaned on the horn. Then he started off again.
"Be better off on me bike," he added, disgusted.
Cummin
s knew enough about cars to put his faith in the two-way radio. Blackrock and Donnybrook stations were the closest, unless there were cars out on the road ahead. Maybe a Garda on a motorbike. Cummins began figuring the chances as he listened to the radio, waiting. A Merc could easily do the ton and it could peel the door handles off this car on its way too. The Vauxhall could wind up to a hundred or maybe a hundred and ten if it was going down the side of the wall with a strong tail wind. Main thing was to keep it in sight and get the job done by radio.
Cummins saw the Merc veer sideways across a lane ahead. The chances might be even better, he thought. Suddenly the Mercedes darted across three traffic lanes and took off over the kerb down Merrion Avenue. Over the siren, Cummins could hear tires squealing still. Someone blew on a horn. Kehoe, with his tongue caressing his lower lip, dodged the cars, their brake lights popping on, their drivers up over the steering wheels. With a sense of timing and dexterity which surprised and pleased him, Kehoe crossed over the three traffic lanes in the wake of the Mercedes, now but a couple of hundred yards ahead.
Kehoe shot a glance at Cummins. Might actually be able to stay with it, Cummins thought.
Merrion Avenue is a broad, straight avenue which runs toward Blackrock and the sea. Off Merrion Avenue run various avenues and roads which draw out the most florid prose in auctioneers' sale ads. A tidy amount of money is to be made installing and updating burglar alarms along the Avenue.
In theory, one can drive down the Avenue at a wicked speed. The risks involved in doing this include an uneven road surface, the entry of other roads onto the Avenue and the presence of several schools at the bottom of the Avenue, just before it joins onto the coast road.