Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  ‘Certainly plenty going on for students – and there are enough of them.’ He

  leaned an elbow on the counter as the other man sat back in his seat. ‘So what keeps you busy in these parts? The town seems so quiet.’

  ‘Yes, this time of year it is. We got the odd thing – a lot of people live out on their own. Burglary is a bit of a problem. Folk who’ve got a few in them on a weekend – there’s our share of that, too.’

  ‘Booze-related crime?’

  ‘Yes – drink-driving is the latest area we’re to focus on.’

  Jon was relieved he’d passed on a second pint. ‘No problems with Darragh’s? Clubs are a real flash-point for us over in Manchester.’

  The officer seemed to be taking his time with an answer. ‘Oh, Darragh’s is no bother. Just dancing goes on in there.’

  ‘Really?’ Jon asked, thinking about Zoë. ‘No issues with drugs?’

  The officer looked at Jon for a second. ‘We’re not aware of any. Has your…what is she, again?’

  Jon didn’t want to say, my dead brother’s partner. ‘My niece.’

  ‘Has your niece noticed anything?’

  Was the other man was playing dumb? ‘No.’

  ‘I doubt most people round here would know an ecstasy tablet if it jumped up and bit them on the arse.’

  ‘What’s the owner like?’

  ‘Darragh? He’s sound. Puts a lot back into the town, so he does. Sponsored the Christmas lights this year. He always puts a hand in his pocket for local projects. We get the occasional complaint when the club closes. Mainly from folk staying in Joyce’s next door.’

  ‘What time’s that?’

  ‘At the chirp of the sparrow, sometimes.’

  Jon lowered his head, unable to keep the smile from his face. At the chirp of the sparrow; it was an expression he’d only ever heard his mum use. Something she said she’d brought with her from Ireland.

  They chatted for a while longer before the clock on the wall behind the desk caught Jon’s eye. Just after ten. The club will be opening in less than an hour, he thought. ‘Well,’ he announced, sliding his empty mug across the counter. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Patrick replied, getting to his feet.

  Once they’d shaken hands, Jon wandered slowly back to his car. As he unlocked it and started climbing in, he glanced across the street to Mannion’s Bar. The silhouettes of several more people were now inside, and from the tilt of the two men’s heads sitting at the window, Jon knew he was being watched. An uneasy feeling nagged at him as he lowered the seat and settled back. 10.22 by the dashboard clock.

  Chapter 5

  Laughter brought him out of his slumber. Blinking, he looked around. The car windows were heavy with condensation. Beyond the misty layer, a group of girls were traipsing past, a bottle of something passing between them.

  He looked at his watch. Twenty to twelve. I slept longer than I meant to. He wriggled his toes, realising they were frozen. ‘Right,’ he murmured, slapping his cheeks to drive the fugginess from his head. ‘Find Zoë and get the hell out of here.’

  He climbed out of the car and into the chill night air. Across the road, the lights were still on in Mannion’s Bar. The pair who’d been watching him through the window were now gone. He walked back to the plane-wing monument and looked across to the entrance for Darragh’s. The dull thump of bass carried from the building. One weaselly-looking bloke on the door and that was it. Thin black hair was plastered back on his head, both hands thrust into a leather jacket. He didn’t look like much of a bouncer.

  Jon approached him with a smile. ‘Evening. Are there a few in?’

  He looked Jon up and down before stepping to the side. ‘Some. It’ll pick up when the pubs shut.’

  ‘Right.’ Jon stepped through the doors. Red carpet and red walls. The music was louder. A lady of around forty was behind a little desk to his right.

  ‘Five euro, please.’

  Jon pulled out his money, found a five-euro note and handed it to her.

  ‘And it’s one euro if you want me to take your coat.’

  He looked down at his ski jacket. I don’t intend to be in here long, he thought. ‘No, you’re all right, cheers.’

  She tore off a pink ticket from her roll and handed it to him. He felt its rough texture and a memory came back: going to the cinema with Dave on a Saturday morning. Orange Maids in the half-time interval. ‘Thanks,’ he replied, turning to the double doors in front and pushing them apart.

  An empty dance floor dominated the middle of a large room, coloured spots of light gliding across it. On both sides were several seating areas, C-shaped settees with low tables for drinks. On the opposite side of the dance floor was a bar which ran across the entire far wall. Two men were behind it – one young and studenty, the other older with a bit of a double chin.

  He walked to the edge of the dance floor and onto the orange carpet. The group of girls he’d seen earlier were in a booth, taking off their coats and scarves. Short skirts and shimmery tops. A couple flashed him looks and one of them whispered something to her mate, eyes staying on Jon.

  At the bar, he pulled up a stool and plonked himself on it. There were two couples at the other end and a mixed group of seven in another of the booths on the far side of the dance floor. The music thudded on, some kind of Ibiza-style dance track.

  ‘What are you having?’

  He turned back to the bar where the younger bloke was waiting. Jeans and a black shirt, the word Darragh’s embroidered in yellow across the left breast. Jon scanned the fridges. ‘Just a can of diet Coke, please.’

  The man gave a single nod, as if to say, it’s your choice. He plucked one from the nearest chiller, cracked it open, half-filled a glass with ice and placed them before Jon. ‘Three euro, please.’

  Ker-ching, Jon thought. Forgot what a rip-off night clubs are. He dropped the coins into the barman’s hand. ‘Is Zoë around?’

  The guy stepped back to the till while looking over his shoulder. ‘Who?’

  ‘Zoë.’

  He rang the order in and turned round. ‘Zoë?’

  ‘Yeah – she works here. British girl, Manchester accent. Stronger than mine.’

  ‘Zoë?’ the man repeated the name again, looking lost. ‘Are you sure she works here?’

  Jon felt a sinking feeling. ‘This is the only nightclub here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. I’ve not heard of any Zoë, though.’

  ‘Which nights do you work?’

  ‘Any I can – I’m at the college down the road.’

  ‘She’s thin – about five foot six, or so. Dark brown hair, usually wears it long.’ The man’s face still looked blank and Jon began to get the impression that describing her was futile. ‘She’s got quite prominent incisors – they jut out. Make her look a bit like a vampire when she speaks.’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard of any British girl working here.’ He called to the chubbier barman further along. ‘Brendan? Your man here is looking for a Zoë. Does anyone by that name work here?’

  His colleague studied Jon before shaking his head and resuming his conversation with the couple he’d just served.

  ‘Nope, sorry,’ the young man said. ‘Unless you want me to ask Darragh – he’s in his office out back.’

  Jon glanced up at the two CCTV cameras trained on the bar. He’s probably watching me right now, he thought. He decided to try another angle. ‘Don’t worry, it was Siobhain I was really after.’

  ‘Siobhain?’ The barman was now chuckling. ‘Are you sure you’re in the right town? This is Clifden.’

  Jon felt a pang of irritation and tried to hide it behind a smile. ‘She’s not a barmaid here, either?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Jon sat back. This was bizarre. Even if Zoë was using another name, it didn’t make sense. No British girl worked here. He thought of his phone in his pocket. I don’t even have a number for Siobhain. This was a bloody joke.
He sipped at his drink, wondering what to do. More people came in through the doors. The group of girls had started dancing. The one who’d whispered kept looking in his direction. Jon caught the barman’s attention. ‘Just nipping out to make a call.’

  The barman nodded.

  The bouncer and two lads were smoking cigarettes on the pavement outside. Jon caught the scent of tobacco and the old yearning immediately opened up. He walked a few metres down the street and took out his mobile. You’re going to kill me for this, he thought, selecting his home number. His wife got to the phone on its fifth ring.

  ‘Hello?’ She sounded groggy.

  ‘Hi babe, it’s me. I’m really sorry to ring this late. Did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s the problem. No one has heard of a Zoë or a Siobhain. Total blank. Siobhain hasn’t called, has she?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shit. This better not turn out to be a waste of time. OK, sorry babe. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you going to drive back now?’

  ‘Probably. I’ll just see if I can have a word with this Darragh character.’

  ‘Right.’

  He cut the connection and walked back to the entrance, holding up his pink ticket out of politeness.

  The bouncer nodded him in.

  Back in the club, Jon walked over to the bar, giving the group of girls a wide birth. Signalling to the barman, he leaned across and pointed to the door in the corner. ‘Can I have a word with Darragh, after all?’

  ‘Two seconds.’

  He disappeared, returning a minute later with a slightly-built man. Jon took a good look as he approached. He was wearing dark trousers and a fitted white shirt, open at the neck. Hair was cut short and carefully messed-up. The style reminded him of Rick’s, the graduate he worked with back in Manchester. As he got closer, Jon could see he had very long eyelashes. The result was a slightly childish appearance.

  ‘What’s the problem here?’ he announced a little impatiently. His voice was high, increasing the impression of immaturity. ‘Joseph says you’re looking for someone.’

  ‘Are you Darragh?’ Jon asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Thanks for seeing me. It’s a relative of mine. I was told she’s working here, but she’s needed back in England. A family matter. I’ve come to collect her.’

  Keeping his elbows straight, he placed both hands on the edge of the bar and shook his head. ‘There’s no English girl works in this club.’

  ‘She’s called Zoë,’ Jon persisted. ‘Bit of a Manchester– ’

  ‘I know what you said she’s called,’ he cut in.

  Why didn’t you say so before, then? Jon thought. Instead of just referring to her as someone.

  ‘But as I said,’ he continued. ‘No Zoë works here. Are you sure it’s Clifden she’s meant to be in?’

  No, thought Jon. I picked this town at random from a map of Ireland and drove seven hours to get here. ‘That’s what I was told. Darragh’s night club. In Clifden.’

  He dropped his arms to his sides and shrugged. ‘Well, I hate to say your journey’s been wasted, but…’

  Jon kept eye contact. The man was in no hurry to look away. Instead, he raised his eyebrows at Jon as if to say, what more do you want? Jon lowered his gaze. I don’t reckon he’s hiding anything. The guy seems genuinely clueless. Fucking Siobhain, what was she playing at? He placed a palm on the bar and gave it a gentle pat. ‘Right. Looks like I’ve got a long drive back. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Drive safely.’

  ‘Will do.’ Jon slid his hand off the shiny surface and started walking for the door.

  The girls were back in their booth and the one who’d been staring called out as Jon went past. ‘Not going already, are you?’ An impish smile was on her face.

  ‘Afraid so,’ Jon answered without breaking his stride. He pushed open the doors, anger sparking inside him. Something about Darragh didn’t quite hang together. Jon replayed the man’s comments, trying to put his finger on what it was. ‘Night.’ He stepped round the doorman and crossed the road, heading for the monument on the corner. What a twat I am, he thought. I should have known anything involving Zoë was never going to be what it seemed. What a waste of time and money.

  He’d opened his car door and was about to get in when his phone started to ring. Examining the screen, he saw the word, home. ‘Ali, are you OK?’

  She sounded exasperated. ‘That girl just rang. Siobhain.’

  Jon stepped back from the car. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That they’re making the delivery first thing in the morning. They have Zoë loading boxes of DVDs into a lorry round the back of Darragh’s. Listen, Jon, I think you should call the local police. I really don’t like the sound of this.’

  He was marching back to the corner. ‘When was this?’

  ‘I just hung up from her call.’

  ‘Probably more horseshit. I’ll take a quick look.’

  ‘Why not ring the police?’

  ‘I don’t want to bother them about nothing – it’ll only make me look a bigger fool.’

  ‘Be careful, Jon. Please.’

  ‘I will. I’ll give you a buzz in the morning.’

  ‘No. Ring me back. I can’t sleep now, anyway.’

  He snapped the phone shut and looked across to Darragh’s. The doorman had his back to him, now chatting to a couple who’d popped out to share a cigarette. Jon looked along the terrace of buildings, seeing access to the rear was via a side-road.

  That was the odd thing about Darragh, he realised. It’s what he didn’t say: there was no question about how I’d heard Zoë was working in his club. Surely you’d be interested to know how a misunderstanding like that could have occurred.

  He skirted quickly across the road and down a slight incline, leaving the glow of streetlights behind him. Fifty metres away a white van stood in the glare of a single security light. It had a roll-up back and the chubby barman was reaching inside. The waistband of his boxers showed above his jeans as he pushed the object as far into the dark interior as he could.

  Jon kept to the shadows, treading lightly to keep his presence a surprise. The barman rummaged around a bit more before straightening up with a crate of bottles in his hands. The rear door to the club was wide open, fire-exit sign visible on its inner side. The barman set off across the tarmac. The security light was directly above the doors, alongside a camera. Once the barman was back in the building, Jon bounded across and followed him inside. A narrow corridor, walls made of breeze blocks. A door at the end on the left-hand side. Jon closed in on the sound of the barman’s voice.

  ‘There’re another five.’

  ‘Will I carry on with this or do you want me to help?’ A female voice with an Irish accent.

  ‘No. You take care of those.’ Darragh’s squeaky voice this time.

  Jon peeped through the doorway. The first thing that grabbed his eye was the dramatic painting on the far wall. A galleon being tossed against jagged rocks. Figures were just visible on the stricken vessel’s deck and, along the shoreline just beyond, a series of flickering beacons provided the painting’s only light. A plaque below it read, The Wrecking of the Concepción.

  Below the painting, Darragh was sitting behind a large desk covered in piles of banknotes. Jon focused on them. Various denominations, all used notes. It’s dirty, he thought. A couple of filing cabinets were against the wall beside him. Mounted on top of them were two monitors displaying images from both inside and outside the club. In the middle of the room a woman in her late twenties was kneeling before a large box. He recognised the picture of the jovial character with the potato-shaped head on its front. Tayto crisps. The barman placed the crate on to a stack of three others and turned round. He spotted Jon and started to frown. At the edge of his vision, Jon saw Darragh’s head turn.

  ‘What the fuck?’ The nightclub owner took off the pair of designer glasses he’d be
en wearing and started getting to his feet.

  Jon stepped fully into the room, seeing the girl’s mouth drop open. He turned to Darragh. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘What?’ He waved a hand at the barman. ‘Get Conor in here. Now!’

  Conor. Must be the bouncer, thought Jon, watching the other man hurry through the doorway on the other side of the room. He won’t pose much of a problem. ‘Let’s avoid any trouble, Darragh. Let me take Zoë home.’

  ‘You think you can march into the back of my club and tell me to avoid trouble? Fuck!’

  Jon regarded him calmly. The bloke was easily wound-up, that was for sure. Pity it just made him look like a peevish eight-year-old. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Who the fuck knows?’ He kept behind his desk.

  Jon turned to the girl. Bleached hair scraped back in a ponytail, bones of her face showing through. She looked no stranger to partying. ‘Where is she?’

  She looked across at Darragh.

  ‘Say nothing, Hazel,’ Darragh barked. ‘I can’t believe this. Jesus!’

  Jon looked at the box she was next to. It hadn’t been sealed fully shut. He leaned down, hooked his fingers inside the flaps and ripped them open. Bags of crisps. Jon delved through the layer, searching for the DVDs below. Crisps, nothing more.

  Movement on the other side of the room. He raised his head to see the bouncer stepping through the door. Hey up, Jon thought, cavalry’s arrived.

  ‘Conor, get this prick out of here,’ Darragh commanded.

  Jon held up his hands. ‘Conor, I’m leaving. I just need Zoë, then I’m out of here.’

  The doorman shot a questioning glance at Darragh.

  ‘Get him out!’ Darragh yelled, eyes shifting to the money covering his desk.

  The girl began to scrabble back as the doorman’s nostrils flared. He started across the room, hands at his sides, palms showing. ‘Come on, out.’

  Jon saw his shoulders were hunched. I know what you’re planning, he thought. Get in so close I won’t know about your fist until it connects with the underside of my chin. He stepped back a pace. ‘Conor, you don’t need to– ’ The guy wasn’t slowing down. Oh bollocks, this is not going to plan. Two more steps and he’ll be able to swing for my face. He thought back to the man as he’d dragged on his cigarette outside the club. Right-handed. That’s the fist he’ll prefer.