Born & Bred

by Peter Murphy

  “I’m sorry,” her father called up after her mother. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  “You said it because you believe it,” her mother turned at the top of the stairs and looked down on her husband. “You always believe the worst of people and that’s all you ever get to see. You should be happy that you have a daughter that would cross the road to bring a bit of comfort to someone.”

  “I am. I am. Only why does it have to be Danny Boyle’s mother?”

  “Because she is the one who needs it. We don’t get to pick who we are supposed to be nice to. There’d be no point in that.”

  “Okay. But what about the other one?”

  “The other one? Do you mean our daughter, Grainne, who is about to have your grandson? Is that the one you want to vent your spleen on?”

  “When did this all happen?”

  “While you were out minding everybody else’s business.”

  Her father sat down on the stairs and called them both to him. “Tell me they got married at least. Tell me that my grandson is not going to be a bastard.”

  “How dare you say that about your own flesh and blood. And, for your information, they were married in Morocco.”

  “What? Did they have one of those Muslim wailers do it?”

  Deirdre couldn’t bite her tongue in time and rushed to join in. “They are called Imams. And when they get back they are going to have a service here, too. And mother and I are going.”

  It was her mother’s one condition—that they have a church service when they got back. Other than that, she couldn’t wait to see them and to hold her grandson in her arms. She had told Deirdre that she would bring her father around. She just had to wait for the right moment to break the news to him.

  He would come around, just like her mother said, after he had time to contemplate having to battle against all three of them—five if Johnny and his grandson took sides.

  “A grandson?” And even the very mention of it softened him a little. “Can I hold him while they are getting married, properly?”

  “You can stay at home with him if you like. Only you’ll go over to the church on Saturday and go to confession. Then we can see about going on with things.”

  Deirdre smiled as she imagined it. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned. I bore false witness against my neighbor.” She couldn’t wait to tell Miriam all about it.

  “And you’ll put on your good suit and go to the Boyle wedding, too.”

  “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

  “So your grandson doesn’t hear about what a terrible neighbor you were.”

  *

  You’ve gone and done it again. You’re your own worst enemy, Danny chided himself in the small little room they held him in. He was trying to act like he wasn’t bothered—except about being innocently locked up—but it was starting to get to him. They had let his father out hours ago and he was still waiting.

  After he had been searched, the two detectives had come back for another “little chat” and sat down opposite him like they were Siamese twins, joined at the hip. They just nodded to him and flipped through their notebooks, pausing once in a while to nod to each other. Danny could tell: they had nothing on him. Handing over the bag was a lucky break.

  Still, he wished he hadn’t done any of it, now. He’d gone and told everyone that he was trying to turn his life around and now no one would ever believe him again.

  The detectives didn’t look like they did. They made that quite clear. They told him that they knew he was at Scully’s execution and that there were some who had even suggested that he might have been the one that pulled the trigger!

  They were probably just trying to scare him.

  But what if Anto decided to get even and gave them the gun?

  It had to have been Anto—the fucker.

  The silent one just eyed him coldly while the younger one went on to tell him that they didn’t believe it. He said they believed that Danny was there all right, and that he could name the killer. That made him an accessory unless he turned witness.

  They told him it would be the wise course of action for him to take. They told him that they wouldn’t have to charge him—that they might be able to see their way to getting him out on probation if he did the wise thing.

  *

  What they didn’t tell him was that they had been told by their sergeant, who was told by the chief superintendent, who was asked by a government minister, who had heard from a bishop, that they were to go easy on Danny Boyle. They could squeeze him a bit but, unless they were positive, they couldn’t charge him with anything. They could hold him overnight, too, but nothing was to happen to him—nothing!

  *

  Instead, they suggested that he sleep on it—that they’d be back in the morning and he could give them his statement then. They wished him a good night and left, locking the door behind them.

  They turned the light off, too, so Danny sat with the light from the little window above the solid locked door as his only comfort. It was a dull yellow light that left shadows everywhere. And every time he stirred the floor boards creaked and groaned in the empty room. There was just the table and three chairs, a pack of cigarettes, and a box of matches.

  That was enough to get him through the night and he had plenty to think about.

  But that kind of thing could get to you after a while. He wouldn’t let it. No, he was going to use his time to try to figure it all out. The Guards had nothing on him. They were just giving him the old scare-them-straight.

  They kept you in an interview room and left you alone for a few hours while you listened to what was going on in the other rooms. Most of the time it was just a drone of conversation. The same old questions. If it was your first time, they didn’t push too hard. They just guided you to the path toward reformation. They could get you there, but you were on your own after that.

  By the second or third time the questions got much harder. They’d raise their voices, too.

  Then it would go quiet. That was when the younger one would sit back and the silent one would take over and start talking in a soft voice. That’s when they really got to you. When they took off their civil masks and really bared their teeth.

  Everyone knew about it but nobody ever said anything; it was just the way things were done. Even though sometimes it got out of hand—like when the fella jumped off the roof of Pearse Street Station while he was still tied to a chair.

  Everyone said it was an unfortunate event but that these things happened. And it only happened to those they didn’t know and only read about in the paper, or heard on the news. It didn’t happen to them, or theirs. But now it had and the whole neighborhood would be buzzing again about the infamous Danny Boyle, “God love him. Wasn’t it his mother that was away in St. Pats for a while?”

  “And his father, God bless the mark, had a fondness for drink. And him from such a good family, too. Bart and Nora must be rolling in their graves.”

  He’d gone and done it again. He was his own worst enemy.

  But they had nothing on him. He’d be out in the morning. His mother would contact the old solicitor. The fucking Guards wouldn’t be very happy to see him. He was one of the old crowd who could still reach out and have one of them transferred to minding sheep at some crossroad in the middle of a bog in the west.

  Danny could sit back and relax and try to figure out what was really going on.

  The part that kept eluding him was—how did they know he was bringing stuff in? Anto wouldn’t have told them about that, and neither would the Driller. They both had too much to lose.

  And why was he intercepted?

  He shivered when it dawned on him that all three of them had been shafted, and, as desperation swirled about him he knelt down and prayed to God to save his soul—and his body. And for the first time in years, he wished his granny was near.

  “Our Father

  “Who art in Heaven . . .”

  *

  By mor
ning he was a convert. If they would just give him one more chance, he wouldn’t mess it up. If he could just get out from under this, he would never put a foot wrong again.

  He believed in himself this time. He had found comfort during the night—the same feeling that he used to get when he was a kid and knelt by his bed to say his prayers. It was like someone up there was looking out for him.

  He even knelt again and looked up and smiled at the smoke-yellowed ceiling in the tiny room where the only light came from the small window above the solid door. Its frame made a cross on the table before him.

  He got up when he heard footsteps approach.

  A key rattled in the lock and the bolts were pulled back.

  “Boyle,” the desk-sergeant barked. “There is someone here to see you. C’mon now.”

  Danny hesitated, like it might be a trap, despite the assurances of the night.

  “C’mon, Boyle. Your solicitor is here.”

  Danny followed him down the narrow corridor, lined by solid doors, locked and bolted, getting brighter as he went.

  After he had been led into another room, a brighter, bigger room, Davies greeted him with stilted concern and asked if he had been mishandled in anyway.

  Danny shook his head but didn’t raise his eyes.

  “I have arranged for your release.”

  Davies waited like he was expecting Danny to just thank him but Danny forgot himself and hugged the prim old man instead.

  “Steady now. Steady.”

  Danny didn’t care. He had been saved, and not just from the cell. He was being given a whole new life and he couldn’t wait to get out and start living it.

  The two detectives were waiting by the desk as he signed some papers and retrieved his belongings. They had taken his belt and his shoes.

  “Remember, Boyle, that you’re still a material witness and we would like you to remain available in the case that we need to interview you again,” the younger one remarked in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Yeah,” the taciturn one joined in. “Don’t go pulling a disappearing act on us. Otherwise we might start thinking the worst of you.”

  “Now, Gentlemen,” Davies stepped between them, like a wedge. “His Grace, the Bishop, has personally vouched for Mr. Boyle’s character. So unless you have the required evidence to lay charges, I suggest you go on about your day and let my client go about his.”

  He stepped past them and held the door open for Danny and stood with his arm raised like he was pointing the way. Outside, the sun was shining and the world smelled fresh and clean to Danny.

  *

  Bart and Nora sat by the small altar and watched with tears in their eyes. They even got to touch each other’s fingers. A cold, tingly feeling that stirred old memories.

  “Do you need my hanky?” she asked.

  “What would I need that for? I just got a bit of dust in my eye. It wouldn’t hurt for them to give this place a good cleaning once in a while.”

  “I think it gives the place a nice feel. I like the way smells linger. You can almost smell last Sunday’s crowd.”

  “Don’t remind me. Do you think it might be time to get on with ourselves?”

  “Not yet, a stór. We agreed that I would wait until Danny was safe and sound and I am not going anywhere until then. Sit where you are and say a few prayers for yourself; I am sure you need them.”

  Bart sat back. There was no way he could budge her until she was ready. Everything was looked after, but he’d never be able to convince her of that. He lowered his head and let his mind roam free. They’d be a while yet.

  *

  Anto came to his epiphany sitting alone in his car while he was waiting for the priest. He wasn’t sure at first, but it all became clearer as he watched Danny’s mother cross the street and go up to the priest’s door.

  Boyle had been fucking him all along—right up the arse—the little bollocks. That was the thanks he got for not coming down hard when his instincts warned him. That was what he got for even thinking of putting other people first. A mistake that wouldn’t happen again. He started the car and headed back into the city.

  When the money was pouring in he had bought a place down near Portmarnock—for when he wanted to retire from the business. Where he could look out his front window and watch the sea until he got bored and found something else to do.

  No one knew about it and he could hide out there while he figured out what he was going to do with Danny Boyle—the little fucker who had ratted him out.

  He’d be let out in a day or two; his family would use all of their connections.

  Anto could wait. Then he’d give Boyle a little lesson in loyalty—just like he did the dog.

  Only that made him feel bad, but what else could he do? He didn’t have Danny’s connections. His family had nothing and he’d been left to fend for himself. Fighting back was the only way he could survive.

  He’d have to vanish afterwards, though. There was no way he could make it look like someone else had done it. They’d know it was him, but he’d be gone by then. He knew a guy with a boat, not far from his hideout. He could be in England before anybody figured it out.

  They’d come after him but he’d have a head start. He knew a few guys from the business. They’d help him out—for a price. They’d help him get to Holland. From there he could vanish and go anywhere he liked. As long as he stayed away from any place there might be Irish—he’d be fine.

  He’d started putting the pieces together while he waited. It might take a little while to get a clear shot at Danny. He stopped to call Maguire and told him to keep an eye out for Danny until he heard back.

  Maguire was hesitant until Anto offered to pay. Maguire was always a whore but he could trust him. He was too stupid to fuck it up.

  *

  The Driller was already in hiding in a safe house in Tallaght. No one knew about it so he could lie low there for a while. He’d left a shooter there before—hidden behind the chimney, in the attic. No one would go looking for it there.

  There was nothing for it—he had to take Anto out. He couldn’t have him leaking to the police. He’d be done for twenty years when they put all the pieces of his past back together. It bothered him, too. That’s why he had started toking up. It was the only way he could function anymore.

  It was the only way he could go out and not be fiddling with the gun in his pocket every time someone walked toward him. He’d nearly pulled the trigger on a bunch of kids on Halloween. They’d jumped out and scared the shite out of him. Fortunately they thought the gun was fake and just laughed at him as they ran off. They had no idea how close he had come to blasting a few of them.

  It let him drive, too, without twitching and turning his head toward every noise.

  Though he still turned his head to look down side streets and around corners. He could take in a whole street with just one glance. He’d always been like that, even as a kid. That’s what made him so good at what he did.

  Except, he didn’t want to do it anymore. He wanted to get out and start up again as someone new. Someone with a different past that would shift and change depending on who he was talking to. It would be easy in America. He could get to start over.

  He just had one more thing to do and then he’d take the ruddy-faced man’s advice and vanish.

  Anto was predictable. He did everything in a very dramatic fashion. It had worked for him in keeping everyone in line but now it was going to be his undoing. The Driller just had to keep his ear to the ground. Anto would never go after Boyle himself; he’d hire somebody to do that for him.

  He’d be in hiding, too. Probably in that place he had up near Portmarnock. The Driller had never been but he knew about it. He could keep secrets, as long as it suited him.

  Maguire! He’d know if there was a hit called. He was like the old women in the post office—the ones that listened in on everyone’s calls. You just had to know how to get him talking. And when he was open for business.

  M
aguire feared him more than Anto. Everyone did. He’d shot his first at sixteen. He still remembered it. He’d been all juiced up on indignity. The Army had broken up the “Free Bogside” and the Brits were harassing everybody. He fired from a distance, the rifle almost breaking his shoulder. He fired more to frighten them rather than hit any of them. They were all so small at the other end of his sights.

  The shot echoed around the flats, even after he dropped the gun down the shaft and ran for the stairs. They would be running for cover and he had a few minutes to get down to his flat and hide inside. If you hung about they might start firing back and that would turn the whole place into a war zone. He was just sending them a warning shot—to remind them they were in the Bogside. Free or not, their type wasn’t wanted.

  By the time he stripped off to his underwear, and dove under his covers, he knew one of them had been hit. It was even on the news. He was a young black guy, from Brixton. He had probably only joined for a chance to get ahead in life but he had no right to come marching through the Bogside like he owned it. He should have known that, growing up in Brixton.

  He did feel bad when he heard that Brixton had died. He had been hoping all night, and not just for his own sake. He was hoping that Brixton would make it through, even if he shouldn’t have been where he was.

  The second one was the execution of someone who was telling tales out of school. He had begged for his life but he died anyway. Orders were orders and the Driller had a growing reputation to live up to. In time, he got his name for kneecapping. That was when they wanted to send a warning without actually killing someone even though most of them would have preferred to be killed. Walking around without kneecaps made you into a leper. No one wanted anything more to do with you after that.

  Sometimes, when he toked too much, they all came back to haunt him. When they started to show up, even when he wasn’t high, he got worried and moved to Dublin, for the rest. But he got bored and the rest, as they say, was history.

  Maguire knew it well, Anto used to retell it every time he was laying down the law—his version of it.

  The Driller caught up with Maguire behind the Classic, where no one ever bothered to look. He was reluctant at first but soon saw sense. He agreed to keep an eye on Boyle for a hundred and a bonus if he heard anything of Anto.