Blood Will Be Born

by Donnelly, Gary

  The assuring metallic aftertaste of his own blood had thinned; his heart started to canter. He wanted a smoke, but mostly he wanted away from this dark street and all its shadows and black places. Fryer stopped at the last house on the street; Jim Dempsey’s. It was a good choice, a safe choice. Fryer would have had the same one. But Fryer would never forget that alertness was the hunted man’s first, and last, defence.

  He peeked over the wall. The downstairs bay windows were mirror glass, probably bullet proof. The front door looked vault strong. Above it at an angle pointing down was a snub CCTV camera. Identical cameras were fixed to the two front corners of the house. Neither had red LED lights blinking, looked dead. A big sensor light was fixed to the wall above the downstairs front window, the size of a large sea shell. No guard, none that Fryer could see, unless Dempsey had a man inside.

  Fryer glanced down, the front gate was unlocked. Dempsey had retained the instinct for security but he had got out of the habit. His arrogance had gone to seed; sprouted stupidity, and sloppiness. Fryer entered Dempsey’s garden. The shell shaped light stayed off.

  Fryer set the blue and white strobe on the ground, and attached the battery. The lamp burst into life, twirling in its sealed unit, splashed blue and white light on Fryer’s face, coating the front of Dempsey’s house and filled the enclosed patio of the front garden. Fryer pushed it behind a potted plant, less light was reflected. This was all about suggestion.

  He stood up, and adjusted the RUC hat on his head and walked across the paved garden to the front door, feeling steady in his Reeboks, feeling good. Fryer kept his eyes off the camera. Still, if Dempsey looked through the front window, he would see through the sham; no police vehicle parked outside, Fryer at the door but uniform all wrong, a ghost from the past.

  But if someone had grown fat and lazy and was ten long years a smug cunt, then maybe his plan would work. Fryer raised the big brass knocker, a black spy hole in its centre, and rapped it three times, gunshot loud cracks in the silence of the night. Inside, a dog started to bark like mad. This was expected. Fryer turned his back to the door and flipped the catch holding the Ruger in its holster. A man’s voice, from within:

  ‘Who’s there, identify yourself,’ he said. It was Jim Dempsey. If he was doing the asking, then he was surely alone, or else Fryer would be dealing with a guard at this point. The dog was still roaring. It sounded like a big male, maybe a Mastiff or more likely a Rottweiler. Fryer shouted out the name of the local PSNI commander that was on the Internet, plus a warrant number he had made up, but sounded right.

  ‘Mr. Dempsey, there has been an assault at the bottom of the street, young person stabbed, we are just checking door to door.’

  No reply from Dempsey, but seconds later the dog stopped barking, like it had been switched off. Also expected; it must have a calm word. Which meant it had an attack word, would kill on command. From within, sounds of the door being unlocked. Fryer walked briskly to the gate, disconnected the lamp from the battery, threw them into the plastic bag, and turned fast, strode back to the front door, building up momentum as he did so. He converted his last step into a swinging kick, and hit the door with all he had as it opened a crack.

  A sharp snap, then a duller, deeper bump and crunch as the door connected with the human head Fryer saw briefly. Then it was gone, the door opened genteelly, all the force spent. From the doorway he could see a man was sprawled and groaning on the wooden floor of the hallway. Candles burned in saucers, scant light. Fryer stepped inside and closed the door with the heel of his trainer.

  The dog was a Rottweiler, big, black and male. It was safely contained behind a steel security gate at the bottom of the stairs, key in the door, but it was going ballistic, knocking its face against the steel bars. He returned his attention to Jim Dempsey, still on his back. Less hair, what remained white now, no grey. Lost a few pounds, his neck skin loose wattles, but this was his man. He was wearing a short sleeve plaid shirt with a horse logo on the breast. A bib of bright blood had already spread across the gaudy fabric. He raised himself up on both elbows, blinking slowly. His nose was swollen and dented at an unnatural angle, eyes beginning to puff and blacken. He mumbled something, through swollen lips. Fryer stepped closer. Dempsey’s eyes rolled, he blinked.

  ‘I’m OK, I’m OK,’ Dempsey was repeating. His eyes fixed on Fryer, awoke with recognition. He scurried backwards, pushing with his feet. Fryer holstered the gun.

  ‘Hold it, Jim. You put your hands where I can see them.’ Dempsey stopped, sat upright, and raised both hands. He stared at Fryer, breathing hard, the bastard started to smile.

  ‘John Fryer? And dressed up to the nines in an RUC uniform?’

  ‘Got you to open your door, though,’ said Fryer. Dempsey’s smirk dropped away.

  ‘Does the hospital know that you are out and about?’ said Dempsey.

  ‘I question, you answer,’ said Fryer, gun raised.

  ‘Anything you say, John. Whatever it is, I want to help.’

  ‘The dog needs to quiet. What’s his name?’ said Fryer.

  ‘Cara,’ said Dempsey, eyes still on Fryer from behind his bloody mask, but thinking now. Cara, Gaelic for friend. Fryer nodded. ‘Now, what’s Cara’s calm word?’ said Fryer. Dempsey glanced at the dog, then back to Fryer.

  ‘John, I’m not sure I understand. I think you are confused here. The dog is upset. Best way to calm him down is for you to leave.’

  ‘Answer me, or hurt. Your choice.’

  ‘No,’ said Dempsey. ‘We are just talking, right John, just talking here? No need for that, we don’t need to go that way.’

  ‘So talk.’

  ‘I don’t know what –’

  Fryer stamped his heel on Dempsey’s outstretched ankle, like a man crushing a tin can. Dempsey’s hands went to it, his leg bent. Fryer raised the gun over his head and slammed the butt of the Ruger down on Dempsey’s raised knee cap. It cracked like a porcelain cup. Dempsey’s hands changed from ankle to knee, his face contorted, ready to scream. Fryer stabbed the barrel of the gun into Dempsey’s mouth, leaned closer. He could smell the blood, a whiff of aftershave, sour sweat.

  ‘Assume that I want no more noise,’ said Fryer. ‘And put those hands back in the air.’ Dempsey gagged and Fryer withdrew the gun, but only halfway. He put his hands up again; clean lines now streaked his bloodied cheeks

  ‘The calm word,’ said Fryer. He removed the gun from Dempsey’s mouth, jammed it hard into his crouch.

  ‘Fuar,’ gasped Dempsey. Gaelic again: Cold.

  ‘Does the dog obey the word or the man?’

  ‘Word,’ said Dempsey, breathing in tight gasps. No hesitation this time, he was learning. Fryer stood up, kept the Ruger trained on Dempsey’s centre of mass. He approached the security gate.

  ‘Cara!’ he shouted. No response. The beast continued its hoarse hysterics, bouncing from paw to paw like it was electrified. His barks ascended to staccato howls as Fryer reached the edge of the steel door.

  ‘Cara,’ Fryer repeated softly, moving his body even closer to the bars of the gate.

  ‘Fuar,’ he said.

  Suddenly, Cara collapsed to his haunches on the bottom step, totally at peace, stomach rising and falling, chocolate brown eyes fixed on Fryer. Waiting, watching. The word was his master. And Fryer had said it. He reached down and tore open the plastic bag of chuck steak, took a handful. He tossed it through the bars, watched as Cara devoured it. He was a beautiful animal, too good for Dempsey. Right then, Fryer decided to take Cara away. For however long his mission lasted, Cara, a friend, would be at his side.

  ‘He’s going to need a drop of water soon,’ said Fryer, taking the zip ties he’d found in the armoury room in Bangor from his pocket. He skirted round Dempsey, crouched down quickly, pulled Dempsey’s arms together behind his back and slipped a plastic noose round his wrists. He pulled the short end very hard. It zipped closed, Dempsey hissed.

  ‘On yer feet,’ said Fryer, and hauled him up. Fryer marc
hed him through to the kitchen, pulled a chair into the middle of the tiled floor and shoved Dempsey down and zip tied his ankles to the legs. Tea light candles flickered on the surfaces and floor, scant light and faint reflection. By the back door was a steel cage, blankets and a bowl of water, inside. The kitchen smelled of dog but not much besides. Fryer pulled out another kitchen chair and sat down close to Dempsey and set about making a roll up.

  ‘Smoke?’ asked Fryer, sparking up his tab.

  ‘Quit,’ said Dempsey.

  Fryer scoffed, exhaled a cloud of blue smoke, better. A cup of tea would seal the deal. He glanced over at the sparse work tops, not even a kettle. Here was a boy playing at being normal, trying to fit in. Fryer would bet that he forgot to put out the bins, and still kept war hours. Fryer’s eye lingered on a crayon drawing of two stick figures, stuck on the side of the fridge. Beside it a photograph of Dempsey and a child wearing an Irish dancing dress. Over the stick figures, large letters: I love you Granda. Fryer looked away quickly.

  ‘That’s from my granddaughter, she’s only nine. Her name is-’

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ said Fryer. Dempsey shut up. His head sank into his chest. Fryer dragged hard on his cigarette, smoke cut his throat, squeezed his lungs in a hot, satisfying cramp.

  ‘You and me need to have a wee chat, Jim.’

  ‘Now, of course, John, we can and we should. But not like this,’ he said, lisping. It was definitely going to get on Fryer’s nerves. One of Dempsey’s front teeth was sticking out at an angle, causing the problem. Fryer leaned in and pinched the tooth between his thumb and forefinger, plier strong. He twisted, and yanked it free. Dempsey yelped, a fresh trickle of blood running down his chin.

  ‘Healthy root if it bleeds,’ said Fryer. He flicked it away, it rattled across the floor.

  ‘I need you to know, I’m going to be taking the dog, Jim,’ said Fryer. Dempsey nodded three times.

  ‘So, I am going to need to know his kill word. Better to have and not need and so on. Plus, I wouldn’t fancy saying the wrong word at the wrong time, you know?’ Dempsey blinked at him, no longer nodding. Fryer took a final pull from the smoke and held the smouldering butt up to Dempsey’s face.

  ‘The word,’ he said. Dempsey nodded again, but no word.

  Fryer pushed the lit cigarette into Dempsey’s cheek, hand on the back of his head. The fire burned into the soft meat of Dempsey’s face, charred pork and burnt fat. Dempsey squirmed in the chair; it took all of Fryer’s strength to keep him from toppling over, as he emitted a high pitched sound, cross between a scream and a moan. Fryer unplugged the butt from its black socket which continued to smoke. He blew on the tip and it glowed red; vicious and ready.

  ‘Please,’ Dempsey whimpered.

  ‘The word,’ said Fryer.

  ‘Please,’ coughed Dempsey. Fryer sighed, and jabbed it back in.

  Dempsey screamed and jerked, Fryer nearly lost him entirely, dropped the smoke. Fryer leaned his weight into the cracked shell of Dempsey’s kneecap, felt something slide and then give way. Dempsey gagged, coughed a sour spray of vomit, hit Fryer on the chest. It was fucking stinking. Fryer stepped back.

  ‘Breath,’ said Fryer. He hoped this was not going to end in mouth to mouth. Dempsey sputtered and spat. Fryer sat down, rolled another one.

  ‘Now, I’d prefer to smoke this one. But I do intend to take the dog, Jim. So I need the word,’ said Fryer

  ‘It’s like handing you a loaded gun,’ said Dempsey, weeping, but not lisping at least.

  ‘Already have one, Jim,’ he said. Dempsey shook his head, no more weeping, a moment of quiet, then he spoke.

  ‘Madmaná,’ said Dempsey, very quietly. Gaelic word for Madman. Fryer raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Bit obvious, no?’ Dempsey looked away.

  ‘So what is it you so desperately need to talk to me about, John Fryer?’

  ‘Let’s start with ten years, locked up in that place like the Count of Monte fucking Christo. Doped up to my eyes. Because of you,’ said Fryer.

  ‘I had to. Don’t you remember what you did?’ said Dempsey. Fryer ignored his question, tried to do the same with the image of Shane’s final whimpering minutes, but the seed had been planted.

  ‘Where was the Movement when I needed it? Fucking nowhere, I was dead to them, and you. But now I’m back.’

  ‘Then you’re ready to collect your pension, John. Money owed.’

  ‘That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it? You and your Brit money, you make me sick,’ said Fryer.

  ‘It’s IRA money, I swear to you, veteran’s money, your money, John. From the First Ulster raid.’ First Ulster, vague recollections of a big bank robbery reported while he was in the Heights, early days. Millions taken, nobody convicted. So that had been an IRA job.

  ‘We got so much we could hardly launder it,’ continued Dempsey, ‘but the old channels were still live so we kept on using them. First Ulster money went out, a cleaning cost and freshly laundered currency, diamonds, sent back, ’ he said.

  ‘And you were kind enough to keep my share here, even though you left me to rot in the Heights?’ he said.

  Dempsey hesitated, and then he said, ‘No, not here. I don’t have access. If you want it, we have to speak to the Accountant.’ Fryer knew who he meant; the Accountant was the money man, in charge of managing IRA funds, Belfast based. A man named Quigley. Fryer had run with his brother. Good family, clever boys.

  ‘But you need me as a go between. Quigley will never deal with you alone,’ Dempsey added quickly.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Fryer. The candles on the kitchen floor had sputtered out, two on the work surface remained, burned low. He could hear Cara panting from the other room. The darkness, all around, was closing in, and with it, the terrible visitation which it almost always brought. On the air, under the charred wax and smoke, he caught the first waft of rot, getting stronger by the second. But no matter, the time had come. Dempsey must have read his eyes. He started to squirm, shaking his head from side to side.

  ‘Dog’s thirsty,’ said Fryer. He trudged into the hall, Cara watched him, pink tongue lolling as he opened the gate. ‘Come.’ Fryer held him by the leather collar, walked him into the kitchen. He could feel the ripple of loose skin and fur under his knuckles, the power beneath. He pointed the gun at Dempsey, one wrong word and he would shoot. He let the dog go. Cara moved gracefully to his bowl in the cage, started to lap water.

  ‘Cut me loose, John. Let me take you there,’ said Dempsey.

  ‘Trust you? Who gave me every filthy job, never did the dirty work? Who betrayed me, left me in the Heights?’ said Fryer. His roll up was dead, he dropped it. Another candle had puffed out, smoke rose in a thin line, but all Fryer could smell was the coming of the Moley, its stench thick as monkey house air.

  ‘You needed help, John. You still do.’ The final candle flickered, the darkness encroached. The Moley was here, in this house. Fryer’s heart pounded, his palms were slick, but he did not move; tonight it would feed, and he would not run, or bleed. He called Cara and he heeled. Dempsey struggled in the chair.

  ‘No! John, don’t! I have something else, you need to know,’ screamed Dempsey, but to Fryer, his voice sounded far away. He seized Cara’s collar and shoved him, a scream in his own throat, and his eyes on the shadows.

  ‘Madmaná!’ shouted Fryer and the dog roared, leapt on Dempsey, toppled him. His cries were brief, replaced by a wet gurgle. He twitched and shook as Cara ripped and tore. Only when the floor was pooled with black blood, and the Moley had disappeared, did Fryer shout, ‘Fuar!’

  Cold.

  And calm.

  Chapter 28.

  Christopher could smell the heavy dullness of spilt blood soon as John Fryer opened the front door of Dempsey’s house. It was thick enough in the air to taste it. Dempsey was in the kitchen on his back, in a pool of it. He stepped closer, took out his phone and started to take a few snaps, to upload. John, who had ushered him in, conti
nued to light candles.

  He heard a guttural, low, animal growl.

  Daddy?

  He turned slowly. There was a big, black Rottweiler watching him from inside a metal cage. The door was open, a nightmare come true. Christopher’s genitals shrunk to nothing for the second time in under an hour. He knew that John expected Dempsey to have an animal, thus the raw meat. But the stink of blood, the body; he’d assumed that the dog was dead, killed before its owner. That was logical, but totally wrong. The dog continued to growl as it eyed him from the shadows. No, not big, it was massive.

  ‘Cara!’ snapped John, and then said something that sounded like Irish. The dog stopped growling, its shoulders deflated.

  ‘It’s OK, kid. He’ll do you no harm.’

  Christopher nodded, managed a nonchalant grin. ‘Cool trick. Maybe you can show me how to do that?’ he said, mouth dry as cork. Christopher’s fingers moved over the screen of his phone, uploading the pictures of Dempsey’s body as @God’sPeopleUnderSiege, tagging two of the followers of his other online persona @TenDead81. His eyes returned to the black dog, still staring at him. He needed to get out of this place.

  ‘This is a nice job, John. It’s going to make a big impression,’ he said, again inspecting the remains of Dempsey’s de-gloved face. It was hard to keep his voice from quivering. The dog started to lick its chops; the fur on its face was matted and dark. He looked again at Dempsey’s mutilated corpse, and made the connection, just as John Fryer spoke.

  ‘It was Cara. He did the business for me. All I had to do was say the word,’ said John. He was smiling, and Christopher smiled back, hoped the gloom of the kitchen was enough to hide his eyes.

  ‘We should go, John. Photo’s uploaded, won’t be long before the PSNI arrive here. Probably best that we don’t stay to open the door for them,’ he said. Fryer nodded. The man had clearly no clue what an upload was but he knew who the police were.