As he got out of his car in the rainy parking lot of Ballyfermot station, he couldn’t help but feel that he was far from fighting fit. He ran in the main entrance with his jacket up over his head to cover up from the torrential downpour. At the desk a Garda was speaking to junkie about parole or some such, trying to get through to his methamphetamine-soaked brain that he was two hours late, and therefore the Garda couldn’t sign his sheet.
Tommy knocked on the graffitied wood counter and took from his pocket an ID.
‘Let me in, will you?’ He asked, and the staff man nodded and walked away from the counter. Tommy walked to the side door to wait for it to open, and while he waited the junkie turned to him.
‘Sorry, mate, but can you help me? Only he won’t sign me parole sheet.’ He said in an ugly slurred voice.
‘Find me Amy Clancy and I will.’ Said Tommy.
The junkie rocked back and forward on the spot as he tried to process the information. Worth a shot anyway. Behind him the heavy wooden door opened.
‘Wait!’ Said the junkie as Tommy was walking through the door.
‘What?’ Asked Tommy impatiently.
‘She was found in Glenaulin right?’ He asked, still teetering from one leg to another.
‘She was yeah.’ Said Tommy.
‘Well have ya asked the homeless?’ He asked.
‘The homeless. Why would I ask them?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Only they may have seen something see? There’s always people staying in Glenaulin, whenever the Glen is full.’ He said
‘Holy shit.’ Said Tommy, slapping the rank and file on the arm. ‘Sign this guy’s parole sheet and under superior officer, sign Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop. If anyone asks send them to me.’
The rank and file just nodded, while the junkie shouted his thanks after Tommy, but he was already gone. Into the back where an old Munster Garda called Peter Hayes was filling out paperwork; Peter almost went as far back as Tommy’s dad’s days in the force.
‘Ah Tommy, how are ya boy?’ He asked.
‘Good as ever. I had some fellas of yours knocking on doors round here?’ Said Tommy.
‘Ya, uhm, I have it here sure, see where I can find it now.’
From down the corridor a shout came. ‘Lemme out! Lemme out!’
It was from the drunktank, someone had just woken up.
‘Want me to shut him up?’ Asked Tommy.
‘No, it’s fine. Picked him up asleep on the road last night, wouldn’t wake for love nor money.’ Said Peter.
‘Who is he?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Fella by the name of Mick O’Reilly. He was a man once, that is until his son was murdered.’ Said Peter.
‘Shit. Regular customer?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Like the moon, at least every month he’s in here.’ Said Peter.
‘Hmm.’ Said Tommy, now taking out the pile of reports left for him to peruse. He spent fifteen minutes looking through them, and as he had been warned and as he had well expected, the canvass of Ballyfermot’s council estates had garnered nothing. Sweet fuck all. Tommy’s only relief during it all came when Peter escorted this Mick O’Reilly from the drunk tank.
Tommy knew Mick’s type, and they all had a story like his. People like Mick remembered Dublin city in the rare old times, when all men had Ronnie Drew beards and everyone lived in tenements and passing out in the street was the done thing. A shame, he was born in the wrong age. In Dublin alcoholics are two a penny, thought Tommy, and Mick was just another member of the cider supping herd.
The notes being useless, Tommy decided to grab some breakfast to make his trip feel worth it, so, he headed over to The Beehive, a restaurant on the Old Galway Road that served up a fine full Irish. Not only that, but they were affiliated with the city’s main home for those afflicted with Intellectual Disability, Steward’s Hospital, and all the waiters and waitresses there were clients. Over a few years of attending, Tommy had gotten to know the staff, and it was always good to stop to talk to someone who wasn’t depressed, like everyone else was in this country. Someone who would just talk about sports, or Halloween, instead of austerity or missing children.
So, Tommy rang Anne, who was out knocking on doors in Trinity Hall, and the two agreed to meet at the Old Beehive in half an hour. Tommy checked in at home, and made sure Morris was doing fine, before picking up an Umbrella and leaving again.
The rain continued spattering so Tommy stayed in his car until Anne eventually came along, driving an unmarked Mondeo much like his.
‘I haven’t seen you in that one before?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Words come down from Phoenix Park, normal roster duty doesn’t apply for this one.’ Said Anne.
Normal roster duty had been instituted sometime back in 2010 in response to the nonexistence of a Garda budget. All crimes had 24 hours to be investigated, after which time they were considered solved and taken off all rosters. Make no sense? Welcome to 21st Century Ireland, Tommy had long learned to live with it, mainly by continually putting the same crimes into the register, an act that was in fact looked well upon by Phoenix Park, because, unless solved, the whole crime could be erased from the PULSE system, and the crime rates then reported as lower than had occurred before.
The fact that word had come from Phoenix Park to abandon regular rostering duties proved one thing: missing southsiders sold a lot of papers
Upon entering the restaurant, set in a beautiful building that had been built as a workhouse back in the famine, and hanging up their coats, they were greeted by the greeter, who was, in fact, also called Tommy.
‘Tommy! How’s it going?’ Asked Tommy, and the server put out his hand to shake.
‘Meet Anne, she works with me.’ Said Tommy.
‘Hi Anne.’ Said Tommy, and speaking now only to Tommy. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’
‘No Tommy, not my girlfriend, I wish though!’ Tommy said, and he was surprised to see Anne turn a bright red and only manage to wave at Tommy the server. Tommy cursed, hoping he hadn’t said something tantamount to sexual harassment.
They were seated and then ordered, Anne just having eggs and toast; Tommy having a full Irish as well as orange juice. They managed to make a quick end of it, and soon were on to discussing solely the case. Brainstorming was Tommy’s forte, and he preferred to do it alone, but Anne began the process and so Tommy was forced to follow.
‘No, no, no. You’re looking at this all wrong.’ Exclaimed Tommy after several minutes of this conversation. ‘The person who did it needed the motive, means and opportunity to abduct Amy; anyone who doesn’t have all three makes no sense.’
‘That’s why you don’t think Hugh did it?’ Asked Anne.
‘How did he bring her to Glenaulin?’ Tommy said.
‘Amy went with him.’ Said Anne.
‘Amy was scared shitless of him, there’s no way she went anywhere with him voluntarily.’
‘So, adults only then?’ Asked Anne.
‘Exactly, so who we’re looking for is an adult male. By the way I’m going to the Furry Glen tonight.’ Tommy said.
‘Hey, do what you gotta do, just don’t tell me about it.’ Said Anne.
‘No, Anne, not for that.’ The Furry Glen was a famous Dublin cruising spot. ‘I need to speak to the homeless.’ Tommy said.
‘And they’re in the Furry Glen?’ Asked Anne.
‘The ones I’m looking for are.’ Tommy said.
‘Are they gay?’ Asked Anne.
‘No Anne. You know during the Phoenix Park has got more to it than just a place to go for buttsex.’ Said Tommy.
‘It’s all I’ve heard it’s good for.’ Said Anne.
‘HQ and the Áras are there?’ Said Tommy.
‘Yeah, hence the buttsex.’ Said Anne, and Tommy in response just rolled his eyes and got up to go to the register to settle the bill.
‘Where to?’ Asked Anne, once they had gotten out into the rain and under an umbrella.
‘Find a traffic stop, start interv
iewing people, I suppose. Hope someone has something.’ Said Tommy.
‘No buttsex?’ Asked Anne.
‘You have the maturity of a four year old.’ Said Tommy as they got into the car. ‘And for that you’re driving.’ He said as he settled into his seat and closed his eyes to get some needed sleep.
‘A woman over last night?’ Asked Anne.
‘How could you tell?’ Asked Tommy.
‘Why else would you be so tired?’ Asked Anne.
‘Just drive.’ Said Tommy, and he began to drift off.
‘Call me next time you’re gonna head off for a fight cause you’re all depressed and shit, call me.’ Anne said.
Tommy looked at her quizzically, until Anne pointed at her own forehead and Tommy understood, the cut looked like it came from a bar fight.
‘Just drive.’ Tommy said again, but sleep evaded him as he couldn’t help but wonder why he had bought three vials of dope.
6
The rain didn’t let up that evening, and so the park was badly waterlogged when Tommy arrived. He parked his car at the Garda Rowing Club so that it wouldn’t be broken into, it was just a two minute walk to the park entrance. With him were Peter Hayes, who knew the park well as a local like Tommy, Anne who had insisted on coming along, and Morris who liked all things park related.
Islandbridge, was the most beautiful part of the city in Tommy’s opinion. It was where the Liffey began to meander its way to the sea, and moved so slowly as to almost be classed as stagnant. The river was rich with wildlife, and along the banks was located ten or so rowing clubs; many of them so old as to have been founded when Ireland was part of the British Empire.
The greenery however didn’t end with the river banks however, for just north there were the war memorial gardens, and just south was the Phoenix Park. There Tommy and the two others would find the camp they were looking for. From his glovebox Tommy had taken three torches, and after having handed one to each of the other two, they proceeded into the park.
The road was waterlogged, with a stream running over their shoes. Luckily Tommy had recommended that they each wear wellies, and so they didn’t feel the cold, muddy water, as the plodded up the road. They had also dressed down considerably; Tommy was wearing a grey hoodie and waders, and the other two were dressed similarly. Anne had even brought a whistle, afraid of being assaulted or something. Tommy told her that in the Phoenix Park at night whistling would do nothing more than attract more rapists.
They swung right when they reached a turn in front of an old decrepit hospital and a row of Victorian streetlamps. A car whistled by and swerved, beeping at the three walkers and covering them in mud. The other two complained but Tommy was happy, they would fit in better where they were going.
It took them ten minutes to reach the Furry Glen, and along the way they were approached twice by smiling men in cars; obviously there was a market out there for grey roadside blobs. The Glen came into view soon enough, identifiable for the hundreds of tents along the bank of the lake, among the trees, and on the grass.
Two images popped into Tommy’s head upon seeing the arrangement. The first was a photo he had seen once of the City of God in Rio de Janeiro, one of the world’s largest slums, where the locals sometimes sleep in hammocks between shanty houses, and the second image was of a renaissance painting Tommy had seen several times, Heironymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights. It displayed man in all its depravity, and on rainy nights like this, it shared a certain likeness to the Furry Glen.
Renowned for its night time combination of seclusion and depravity for generations, the Glen had even featured in an old red light district Dublin anthem. Though Tommy was almost certain that particular song was written later than it made out, it still underlined the fact that the Furry Glen wasn’t a creation of the bailout generation. The irony was that, as a heavily wooded area, with a small lake and about twenty different small walkways, it should be paradise on earth for anyone who wanted to escape the city. Right now, according to the Simon Community representative Tommy talked to earlier, it was home for a hundred or so homeless who were too doped or drunk to even get into the wet hostels around the city.
They lay in hammocks strewn between trees, sleeping bags against trees and tents on any bit of clear ground they could find. Usually there would be fires, but with the heavy rain there was no way one would light so everyone was left to shiver while they slept in pools of wet mud. No one, no matter how deluded, would imagine that this was a camping trip or school sleep out. The Glen was silent except for the occasional scuffle, two or three residents who spoke a constant monologue, and a painful, lonely wail of a baby in pain. A weight of despair hung over the beautiful woodland.
‘There’s a baby down here.’ Said Anne.
‘Yup, and children too.’ Said Peter. ‘If you start intervening in the families however, there won’t be a quicker way to end up getting the cold shoulder. I don’t think whoever the parents are will appreciate members of the state that has ignored them until now coming down to their shantytown to tell them they’re bad parents.’
‘But, the kid might die in this weather?’ Protested Anne.
‘You’ll leave it.’ Said Tommy, and that was the end of it.
They began their descent, deciding to talk to only those who were awake, ignoring those asleep or unconscious, believing that waking someone who managed to sleep in this rain would hardly endear them to the community.
The first person they tried was not at all interested in talking to them, the second was an old woman who just gave them a monologue of her childhood in an industrial school, and it took twenty minutes before Tommy could distract her enough to leave. After the second woman, Tommy received a call from Claire Clancy, who was continuing the pattern of calling every three hours to check up on the case. Tommy, again, told her to ring the head of the NCBI, and that he couldn’t help her; to which she just whimpered in response.
After finally extracting himself from the phone call with Claire, Tommy moved onto his third attempt. Anne was at his side, Peter had gone on interviewing others in the park. Stepping over a sleeping body between two trees, they came upon a young man staring coldly at the ground.
‘Excuse me.’ Said Tommy. And the man’s glazed eyes shifted up from the wet ground to Tommy, who got down on his hunkers before him.
‘Whatcha want?’ Asked the man, his voice slurred. In filthy hands he carried a can of cider, or at least that’s what the can said. Given that, a meter away, Tommy could smell the contents, it was almost certain that what had once been cider had finally become something entirely stronger.
‘My name’s Detective Inspector Thomas Bishop, I need some..’ Began Tommy.
‘Fuck off, pig.’ Said the young man.
‘I need your help.’ Said Tommy.
The young man spat at him.
‘I could bring you in for that.’ Said Tommy, wiping away the phlegm from his knee.
‘Go ahead, oink, oink.’ Said the slurred man.
Tommy took from his pocket a cigarette, not that he smoked himself.
‘A fag for the name of someone who stays in Glenauling.’ Said Tommy.
The kid spat at him again. ‘I ain’t saying shit, and neither is anyone else.’
Tommy grimaced, got up and turned away from the hopeless case, but not before he threw the cigarette at him. The kid murmured some kind of thanks, and named Tommy ‘Michael’ for some reason. The baby continued to wail.
##
Over his bedside lamp Tommy had placed a white lampshade, and now every time at night, when sleep evaded him, the lampshade would be knocked over by his lunging hand searching for the switch he never could find in the dark.
The room was lit up by an awful colour from the environmentally friendly bulb, and as it heated up it hardly held the darkness at bay. The knocking, the bumping of the lampshade, it acted as a signal, and in she came – Tommy could hear her, creeping along in the dark recesses of his room where the light couldn�
�t reach. She stayed there, huddled in the corner, her breath so out of synch – rasp in, rasp out, rasp in, rasp out.
She stood there, pressed into the dark, until Tommy could almost see the outline of her face – he inhaled, about to speak, but something caught in his throat. Then, she was on the move, climbed a series of white presses by the old wardrobe. She was perched there, white teeth carving a beacon into the night. Tommy could hear her keds sliding against the white wood.
Tommy knew it was insanity, the dark road that led to the end even quicker than the morphine, yet he reached out regardless.
‘Please.’ He said. ‘Please.’
Never before had he wanted something so badly, and he felt the pressure build behind his eyes. He arose and went to her, but of course the shelves were nought but shelves, and he of course was nothing but alone. There was no one in his room, no one in his bed; seven billion people on the planet and Tommy knew only lonely despair.
Upon this occasion he didn’t waste any time with Huzzar, nor did he try reason with himself on the benefits of sobriety – upon this occasion he was efficient in his set up. And so it was that ten minutes later he was pricking his arm with the only cure for lonely hallucinations Tommy knew.
7
While Anne bought her breakfast at the counter, Tommy read the newspaper headlines. They were almost all to do with the case. Even the tabloids such as the Daily Mail, whose usual remit was reporting on all things Islamic, had pushed Amy’s death to the front page.
THE MONSTER IN OUR MIDST
ONE DAY ON AND CHILD KILLER STILL LOOSE
TRAGEDY FOR CLANCY FAMILY JUST BEGINNING AS KILLER CONTINUES TO ELUDE CAPTURE
Were among the more sensationalist. Tommy had of course handled cases like this before, labelled ‘hot potatoes’ among the Gardaí. He knew that the Irish media in full frenzy was like a crazed animal; with an obsession with tragedy that went beyond voyeurism to full blown fetishism. Therefore, the tabloids having fourteen pages of coverage devoted solely to the Clancy case was in no way a surprise – it had all the elements of a perfect Irish storm – an innocent female dead, the grieving families being from South Dublin, and smallest sense of smug superiority among the public that their daughter wouldn’t be such easy prey for whatever creature had done this. One flick through their pages told Tommy all he needed to know about their ‘coverage’.
First Death In Dublin City (Thomas Bishop Book 1) Page 8