by Peter Murphy
“If you don’t mind,” Granny Boyle had asked with polite insistence, “Danny and I would rather it was just the two of us.”
Muldoon smiled like he’d been slapped but stood back without comment. The old principal was retiring that summer and he was next in line for the job. He didn’t want to risk any more complaints reaching the parish priest’s ears. “Not at all Mrs. Boyle, and may I tell you that I’ve never seen Master Daniel looking so well turned out. He’s a real credit to you.”
“He’s a credit to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, that one. A pure angel if ever there was one, no matter what slandering sinners would say about him.” She stared Muldoon down as she arranged herself for the camera. She had never gotten over it—the day Danny came home in tears.
**
“What’s the matter pet?”
Danny was still shaking as he told her about what had happened at school that day.
They had been having a serious discussion about what went on in the local dances. None of them had been to any, of course, but most of them had older brothers and sisters.
Geraldine Wray was talking about “the Lurch”—the latest dance craze. Muldoon listened with growing indignation and puffed himself up a little more. He blamed television, the world’s latest intrusion on Ireland. He had one but he only watched RTE. His students, though, watched the BBC and ITV, watching shows like Top of the Pops and no good could come of that. He had warned them it was a bad influence. “God bless us and save us,” he declared when he had heard enough.
“Everybody’s doing it,” Geraldine assured him.
Muldoon puffed himself up a little more. “I don’t care if the bishop and the reverend mother are doing it.”
“I can just see those two at it,” Danny piped up in a flash. He had a bit of a crush on Geraldine and never missed a chance to be in the same conversation, but it went wrong. Muldoon turned on him with a face like thunder. “May God forgive you for saying such a thing. That’s a mortal sin—that’s what that is—and you just weeks before your Confirmation. I’ve a good mind to call the archbishop myself and . . .”
Granny gritted her teeth as Danny relayed it all.
“Oh, did he now?” she stroked Danny’s face. “You go on up and have a little lie down in your bed while I go and have a word with the parish priest. I’ll not have that bog-amadán talk to my grandson like that. Go on now, and here,” she handed him a small plate of chocolate biscuits. “Just mind you don’t get any on the sheets.”
**
“Big smiles for the camera, now.”
Granny composed herself. This was one of those great moments that would live on long after she had gone to meet her maker. She would have a few bones to pick with Him when she got there but for now she smiled and held Danny close to her. Please God, she whispered through her smile. Look after my Danny when I’m gone.
She had great faith in God but she also had a healthy fear of the Devil and there were, God forgive her, times when she wasn’t certain which one would win out in the end. But she kept her doubts to herself and went along with the current of the times.
Besides, she reminded herself as she shook hands with neighbors and friends, God tests the faithful but doesn’t stint on their rewards. He had given her Danny, the apple of her eye and the only thing the world hadn’t torn from her. She was there for His angel when those who should weren’t. She accepted the job with joy, and dread. She knew far too well that the wickedness in the world would be out to destroy Danny, just like it had done to Jesus—and Padraig Pearse.
***
When they got to Killakee car park, the Driller pulled over and turned the car toward the twinkling lights of the city below and waited for Anto to break the silence.
“It’s nice up here, isn’t it lads? I like to come up here to think, ya know?”
“I think we’d have a nicer view over by the wee wood,” the Driller disagreed and nodded in the direction of Cruagh Wood, off in the darkness.
“What do you think lads? Do you think we should go for a walk in the woods?”
Scully said nothing but pleaded with Danny with his swollen, puffy eyes.
“I’m fine here,” Danny answered, hoping that if they waited in the car park, someone might drive by, maybe even the Garda.
Anto was probably just trying to frighten the shite out of them—and he was doing a great job. Every time Danny let his mind wander into what might happen, he had to clench his arse.
But it was all just for fuckin’ show—it had to be. They weren’t going to whack the two of them. They might just be making a show for Scully’s sake, but Danny had done nothing wrong. Sure he owed them some money, but he was going to pay them, one of these days.
In the back of his mind, Danny had always known that life was out to get him. Despite all the talk about God loving them, and all, he knew better. His God stalked the streets looking to mete out punishment when he could and there was nothing anyone could do about that.
“Always thinking of yourself, Boyle. Didn’t anybody ever teach you to be considerate of other people’s feelings? Like Scully, here. Don’t you think that he might like a walk in the woods?”
“But it’s still fuckin’ pissin’ down with rain. Maybe we should just go back down and come out another time?” It was a long shot but Danny had to try. If he could just get back to the city, he’d change everything. He’d even start going to Mass again. And he’d go to Confession and clear his slate. He prayed silently into the dark desperation that swirled around him. Maybe, if he prayed hard enough?
Anto nodded to the Driller who started the car and took the road that led toward the wood. “Ya, maybe you’re right, Boyle. What do you think, Scully? Do you think we should come back on a nicer day?”
“I didn’t grass anybody. They tried to make me but I just told them a load of shite, ya know? I wouldn’t grass you’se guys. Ya know that, don’t ya? You’se are my mates. I’d never fuck you’se over. You know that, don’t ya?”
Anto seemed to be thinking about it and nodded when he was done. “Of course we do but we just had to hear it from your own lips. You know that we’re just trying to remind you of what would happen if you did.”
“I know that Anto, that’s why I’d never fuckin’ grass you, ya know. I’m not mad, ya know?”
“Ya,” Danny joined in, careful not to implicate himself with his enthusiasm as a rush of forgiveness flowed through the car. He whispered his thanks to the side window and resisted the urge to bless himself.
“Okay,” Anto turned around and smiled at them both. “But let this be a lesson for you—the both of you’se. We have to stick together. Right?”
Danny and Scully nodded as they drove off, but the Driller pulled over when they got to the woods. “Well now that we‘ve all kissed and made up, I need to take a leak. Anybody else?”
“Ya,” Anto agreed. “We’re all cool now. Right Scully? Boyle? No hard feelings? Let’s all get out. We can have a few hits, too, and put the whole fuckin’ thing behind us. I don’t want to smoke-up in the car, in case we get pulled over on the way back.”
They all got out and stretched in the damp mountain air. Perhaps, Danny wanted to believe, it was all going to be okay; Anto was just sending them a message. He could be like that—very dramatic.
They stood in a row, pissing up against the boles of trees, careful to stand with the wind behind them. Danny stood next to Scully and had almost relaxed when the Driller stepped up behind them and popped two shots into the back of Scully’s head.
Scully fell forward, his own piss still dribbling between his fingers. He twitched a few times and then grew still. Anto approached and nudged him with his foot before looking into Danny’s face. “It wasn’t personal, Boyle, ya know that? It’s just business. We have to maintain loyalty. Scully knew that, ya know?”
Danny didn’t speak and just nodded as he kept one eye on the Driller who still held his gun ready.
“And now we should commit our dear departed f
riend to the ground,” Anto continued like he was saddened by what had just happened. “And, when all the fuss has died down, we’ll come back and put up a nice little cross, or something. Scully used to be a good mate; it’s the least he deserves. Did you bring the shovel?” he asked the Driller who was still standing over Scully, ready to shoot again if he moved.
“No! Fuck-me. I left it in the car. Here,” the Driller held out the gun, cold and hard in the softness of his damp leather gloves. “Hold this while I get it.”
Danny fingered the cold metal, still reeking of death, and thought about it. He could pop them and get the fuck away without anybody knowing. He’d always wanted to be a hero—just like his grandfather who had fought off the Black and Tans.
**
“He would have been so proud of you, Danny boy,” his granny had reminded him the day he was Confirmed. “I’m sure he’s boasting about you right now with all of his old friends and comrades.”
She had brought him to the Garden of Remembrance because that’s where his spirit lingered. It was where she came to talk with him when the spinning of the world got too fast. He never spoke to her, she wasn’t crazy—like some people—but she always said that she found peace and calm in his silence.
She wanted to share that with Danny but he was too young still.
And too full of wonder, as he stared into the pool, at the mosaic on the bottom, ancient Celtic weapons, forever beyond use.
He watched his granny’s reflection walk to the other side of the cruciform, and, with the sunlight reflecting on the water and the brilliant white fluffy clouds just beyond her shoulders, she looked like a guardian angel. But he could tell that she was tiring. The long bus ride from Rathfarnham and the short one across the river and up to the “Square” had taken their toll.
When he looked up she rearranged herself and beckoned: “Come on now and sit down with your granny and enjoy a little bit of the peace and quiet they all died for.”
The sun was flittering through the fresh green trees and Dublin rumbled by outside without deference as Danny nestled in beside her and stretched his legs in front of him. He admired the sharp crease on his long pants. His shoes were a bit dusty and his socks had rolled down to his ankles. His ribbons fluttered under his nose, tickling as they passed. He was almost a young man now, almost ready to make his own way in the world, still clutching the envelope that Granny had given him on the bus.
“Go on,” she smiled. “You may as well open it now. Only give it back to me afterwards so I can keep it safe until we get home. It’s not much now, but it’s the least you deserve.”
Danny nearly piddled when he saw the two five-pound notes tucked in the folds of a handwritten letter that said how proud she was of him; how he was the reason that she was happy to get up every morning even though everything else she had loved had been taken from her. Her handwriting never varied and flowed until it carried him along to where she reminded him to stay close to God—that the Devil was never far away.
Danny read it slowly and deliberately before putting it back in the envelope which Granny tucked into the folds of her bag and looked at all the memories that swirled around them.
“When I was a girl the English opened their jails and sent their murderers over here to plunder and pillage, and, some say, defile any young girls who might be out at night.”
She fanned herself with her glove before continuing. “They were the Devil’s spawn, all right, but some of the boys weren’t going to let them get away with any more of that. Your grandfather was one of those that stood up to them. Even killed a few of them, too, but he got absolution for that. The priest told him to pray for their souls, every day; for the rest of his life, as his penance.
“Not that he ever talked about it, mind you, but then those that did the most say the least and that’s the way the holy mother of God wants it. Maybe it was Her plan all along—that Bart would kill them and then pray for their souls. That way they could still get to Heaven. Don’t you see?”
Danny nodded in total agreement. His grandfather was his idol. He was going to grow up just like him, too, and become the man that won the North back. Granny often told him that he had it in him—not like the Gombeens down in Leinster House. “Free-Staters,” she called them and almost spat the words. “They were the ones who locked your grandfather up for being too much of an Irish hero—the bunch of scuts, every one of them, God forgive me.
“But your grandfather never held a grudge. ‘We all die for Ireland, someday,’ he always used to say when people got to arguing about it. He wasn’t one for making a hash of the past, especially with those who hadn’t even been a part of it.”
She then fell silent among her memories as the breeze rippled the water and the flags, and the fresh green leaves, as Danny wandered among his own daydreams. After he had done all the patriotic stuff, he’d play football for Ireland and help them win the World Cup. And they would win it fairly, too, not like the English. The parish curate was starting a new team and had asked Granny if Danny could play for them. They must know how good he was, although he had never really played much.
He’d have to get a pair of boots, though. He’d get his father to buy them the next time he was over. Granny wouldn’t know the right ones. He would ask his mother to ask him; she always knew how to get him to do things.
“Can we go see my ma now?”
“Sure of course we can, pet. We can get the bus just down the street and we’ll be there in no time.”
She rose slowly and headed toward the gate, trailing her fingers in the water for a moment before raising them to her lips, her heart, and across her shoulders.
***
“You like that, don’t ya Boyle? A gun gives a man real power.” Anto lit another cigarette and watched Danny’s face. “Why don’t ya keep it? It could come in handy, ya know?”
Danny hesitated. He could get one of them—but which one? Anto was always packing. He had lit his cigarette with his left hand. His right was still in his pocket, facing Danny. And the Driller was coming back.
Danny decided against it. He would have to raise the gun on both of them and he couldn’t be sure that he would actually fire it. He might pause and that would give one of them a chance to pop him. He held the gun in his hands, turning it around before handing it back to Anto.
“Thanks, but I don’t want it.”
“Are you sure, Boyle? It could come in handy.” Anto reached his gloved hand forward and took the gun away. “C’mon then, let’s get the fuck outta here.”
“But what about Scully?”
“Ah, fuck him. We’ll make a call when we get back. The cops can come and pick him up.”
“But won’t they figure out what happened?”
“Don’t worry, Boyle. They’ll never be able to trace it back to us. That’s why we wear gloves. C’mon, let’s get to fuck outta here.”
Danny sat in the back seat and looked at his bare fingers, now imprinted on the gun. Anto had him over a barrel and there was fuck-all he could do about it.
“By the way, Boyle,” Anto turned when they pulled up outside the Yellow House, close to where Danny lived. “Now that Scully is no longer with us, we’ll have a few things for you to do.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
“C’mon, Boyle. You’re perfect for the job. And,” he paused to pull his gloves off, “we know we can trust you. Think about it and we’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER 2
Danny’s mother listened to the radio as she waited for the kettle to boil. The news was full of the Queen’s visit to the North and Jacinta’s heart grew warm with hope. They were all tired of the fighting, but her heart froze a little when the newscaster went on to report on the finding of a young man’s body up near the Hell Fire Club. He had been shot in the head and left like rubbish among the trees.
Danny had been out late and she couldn’t help but worry. He had become so shifty again, avoiding her eyes and any questions about how he was spending
his nights.
“It’s just one less feckin’ drug dealer,” Jerry snorted as he sat down at the kitchen table and waited for his tea.
She had seen that look on his face before. He had worn it for years when she was in the hospital, when he tried to show that he wasn’t afraid. “The sooner they all kill each other the better, as far as I’m concerned. Besides, it’s got feck-all to do with us.”
“Maybe you’re right, but did you ever wonder where Danny is getting all his money from? Every time he goes out, he buys things for himself.”
“He’s probably making it busking.”
“Are you sure? He’s got nearly two hundred under his mattress.”
“Good for him. He’s getting great on the guitar and he has a good voice. If only he’d sing something good, like Buddy Holly. I’m sick of all the punk shite he does.”
“But he can’t be making it all from that.”
“He’s probably got a few fiddles going—down at the Dandelion—you know? Buying and selling shit. Fair play, I say. Anybody who can make any money in this country is a feckin’ genius.”
“You don’t think we should be worried?”
“Not at all. Danny is a good lad at heart. He’d never do anything stupid.”
But Jerry wasn’t so sure. If Danny was anything like him, he’d get himself into more trouble than he could handle. He was probably involved, somehow. It was the only way he could be making money like that. The Ireland that Jerry’s father had fought for had become a hard place and he and Jacinta hadn’t made it any easier for Danny. He knew what was going on. There were drug dealers everywhere like they didn’t fear anybody.
But there were those that the drug dealers feared and Jerry knew someone who knew someone who knew them all. They might be interested in helping—for Bart and Nora’s sake if not for Jerry’s. He’d have to convince them, though. He had blotted his copybook with them before.